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KIDNAPPED 


BY 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 


With an Introduction by 

J 

MU A. EATON 


EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
BOSTON 
Chicago 


New York 


San Francisco 



Copyright, 1912 


BY 

EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 5 

Dedication 9 

Chapter I — I Set Off Upon My Journey to the 

House of Shaws 11 

Chapter II — I Come to My Journey’s End . 1 7 

Chapter III — I Make Acquaintance of My Uncle 24 
Chapter IV — I Run a Great Danger in the 

House of Shaws 33 

Chapter V — I Go to the Queen’s Ferry . . 43 

Chapter VI — What Befell at the Queen’s Ferry 51 

Chapter VII — I Go to Sea in the Brig “Cov- 
enant” of Dysart 58 

Chapter VIII — The Round-House ... 67 

Chapter IX — The Man With the Belt of Gold . 74 

Chapter X — The Siege of the Round-House . 86 

Chapter XI — The Captain Knuckles Under . 95 
Chapter XII — I Hear of the Red Fox . . 101 

Chapter XIII — The Loss of the Brig . . .112 

Chapter XIV — The Islet 119 

Chapter XV — The Lad with the Silver Button : 

Through the Gale of Mull . . . .130 

Chapter XVI — The Lad with the Silver Button : 

Across Morven 140 

Chapter XVII — The Death of the Red Fox . .150 

3 


4 


CONSENTS 


Chapter XVIII — I Talk »vith Alan in the Wood 

of Lettermore 157 

Chapter XIX — The House of Fear . . . 167 

Chapter XX — The Flight in the Heather: The 

Rocks 175 

Chapter XXI — The Flight in the Heather: The 

Heugh of Corrynakiegh 186 

Chapter XXII — The Flight in the Heather: 

The Muir 195 

Chapter XXIII — Cluny’s Cage .... 205 

Chapter XXIV — The Flight in the Heather: 

The Quarrel 216 

Chapter XXV — In Balquidder . . . .229 

Chapter XXVI — We Pass the Forth . . . 238 

Chapter XXVII — I Come to Mr. Rankeillor . 251 
Chapter XXVIII — I Go in Quest of My Inher- 
itance 261 

Chapter XXIX — I am Come Into My Kingdom . 270 
Chapter XXX — Good-bye . . . 279 


INTRODUCTION 

Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson, or Robert Louis 
Stevenson, as he preferred to call himself, was the only 
son of Thomas Stevenson, a Scotch engineer, and Mar- 
garet Balfour, the daughter of a Scotch clergyman. He 
was born at Edinburgh, November 13, 1850, and almost 
from his birth he was a frail, sickly little boy, condemned 
to spend much of his time in bed. 

His mind, however, was as vivacious and active as 
his body was weak, and there is no trace of morbidness 
or gloom about him. Although he loved the open air 
and all sorts of sports as well as any boy, he could turn his 
counterpane into an ocean and see the most surprising 
things in his bedroom candle. 

Naturally, Stevenson’s health made his schooling 
somewhat irregular, but what he lacked in this way he 
made up by numerous journeys with his parents through 
England and the Continent. He was able, however, 
to enter the University of Edinburgh, where his father 
wished to prepare him for his own profession. Thomas 
Stevenson, and his father before him, were in the Scotch 
lighthouse service, and had built some of the most famous 
lights in the world, and he wished Louis to carry on the 
family tradition. 

But young Stevenson’s tastes were all literary and he 
had determined within himself to become a writer. 
He had not, to be sure, showed more than ordinary 
cleverness with his pen hitherto, but contact with bril- 
liant and enthusiastic young men at the University had 
given him new incentive, and he embarked on the career 
of literature with a conscious purpose, and a patient 
seeking after perfection that must have succeeded even 
without the touch of genius. 


5 


6 


INTRODUCTION 


To please his father, who had not much faith in litera- 
ture as a profession, he studied law and was admitted 
to the bar. But a young lawyer has a great deal of 
leisure while waiting for clients, and this Stevenson de- 
voted to his real work of writing. He has himself told 
us how he never lost sight of this, his real object in 
life: 

“All through my boyhood and youth,” he says, “I 
was known and pointed out for the pattern of an idler; 
and yet I was always busy on my own private end, which 
was to learn to write. I kept always two books in my 
pocket, one to read, one to write in. As I walked, my 
mind was busy fitting what I saw with appropriate words; 
when I sat by the roadside, I would either read, or a 
pencil and a penny version -book would be in my hand, 
to note down the features of the scene or commemorate 
some halting stanza. Thus I lived with words. And 
what I thus wrote was for no ulterior use, it was written 
consciously for practice. It was not so much that I 
wished to be an author (though I wished that, too) as 
that I had vowed that I would learn to write. That was 
a proficiency that tempted me; and I practiced to ac- 
quire it, as men learn to whittle, in a wager with myself. 
Description was the principal field of my exercise: for 
to any one with senses there is always something worth 
describing, and town and country are but one continuous 
subject. 

“That, like it or not, is the way to learn to write; 
whether I have profited or not, that is the way. It was 
so Keats learned, and there was never a finer tempera- 
ment for literature than Keats’; it was so, if we could 
trace it out, that all men have learned. . . . Per- 

haps I hear some one cry out: ‘But this is not the way 
to be original.” It is not; nor is there any way but to 
be bom so. Nor. yet, if you are born original, is there 
anything in this training that shall clip the wings of your 
originality.” 

Very soon Stevenson began to publish essays in a quiet 
way in some of the Reviews, but his work was continually 


INTRODUCTION 


7 


interrupted by more or less severe attacks of lung trouble 
and thenceforth he became a wanderer, never able to 
live long in one place. Hitherto his work had been 
chiefly essays, but in 1877 he tried his hand at fiction 
and wrote his first long book, New Arabian Nights, as 
well as one of his most original and exquisite short stories, 
“ Will o’ the Mill.” Many of his travels he has described 
in his Inland Voyage , Travels with a Donkey, The 
Amateur Emigrant, and Across the Plains. 

The latter books describe his first journey to America. 
In 1876 he had met while in France an American lady, 
Mrs. Osbourne, who was spending the winter in France 
with her two children. Stevenson became interested in 
her and news of her ill health determined him to seek 
her in America. 

The long trip, which was not so easy as it is now, 
told upon him terribly, remittances failed to reach him 
from home, and for a little while he had a hard struggle 
in San Francisco. The bright courage, however, that 
made every one love him, never failed, and in 1880 
he made Mrs. Osbourne his wife, and sailed with her 
and her children for England. 

No sooner was he home, however, than health com- 
pelled him to wander again. Treasure Island was the 
first book to bring him fame and popularity. Hence- 
forth his path as a writer was easy and triumphant. 
The Black Arrow, Prince Otto, Kidnapped, The Master 
of Ballantrae, The Wrecker, David Balfour, and The 
Ebb Tide followed with surprising rapidity for a man 
who was a confirmed invalid. Besides these he wrote 
many, short stories, poems, and essays, and left two un- 
finished tales, St. Ives and the Weir of Hermiston. The 
latter gave promise of being his greatest story, and 
seemed to indicate that, could he have lived, he would 
have developed powers hitherto unsuspected in him. 

Worn out with the quest for health, he at last deter- 
mined to cruise in the South Sea Islands and he finally 
made him a home in the Island of Samoa near the town 
of Apia. Here he gathered his family about him as 


8 


INTRODUCTION 


described in the Vailima Letters , and never for one mo- 
ment succumbed to the idleness of ill health. He wrote 
every day, he interested himself in the affairs of the 
natives, and when death at last overtook him in 1894, 
it found him, as ever, busy and smilingly defiant. He 
was buried on the summit of a mountain close by his 
home, and on his monument is engraved his own Requiem: 

“Under the wide and starry* sky, 

Dig the grave and let me lie, 

Glad did I live and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will. 

“This be the verse you grave for me: 

Here he lies where he longed to be; 

Home is the sailor , home from sea , 

And the hunter home from the hill ” 

No words could better describe the life of this singu- 
larly brave and happy man. Delight in nature, the fas- 
cination of a free life under the wide sky or on the open 
sea, so filled his soul, that he forgot, and made us forget, 
his physical limitations. A confirmed invalid, he filled 
his books with a sense of abounding life, health and free- 
dom, that few have ever rivalled. He lived joyously 
and dauntlessly, he delighted in the primitive qualities 
and passions of man, and he calls upon us to live gladly 
and arouse us from our introspections. The spirit of 
his life is best told in his own words: 

“Acts may be forgiven: not even God can forgive 
the hanger-back.” 


DEDICATION 


My Dear Mr. Baxter: 

If you ever read this tale, you will likely ask your- 
self more questions than I should care to answer: 
as, for instance, how the Appin murder has come to 
fall in the year 1751, how the Torran rocks have 
crept so near to Earraid, or why the printed trial 
is silent as to all that touches David Balfour. These 
are nuts beyond my ability to break. But if you tried 
me on the point of Alan’s guilt or innocence, I think 
I could defend the reading of the text. To this day, 
you will find the tradition of Appin clear in Alan’s 
favor. If you inquire you may even hear that the 
descendants of “the other man” who fired the shot 
are in the country to this day. But that other man’s 
name, inquire as you please, you shall not hear; for 
the Highlander values a secret for itself and for the 
congenial exercise of keeping it. I might go on 
for long to justify one point and own another inde- 
fensible; it is more honest to confess at once how 
little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This 
is no furniture for the scholar’s library, but a book 
for the winter evening school-room when the tasks 
are over and the hour for bed draws near; and honest 
Alan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day, has 
in this new avatar no more desperate purpose than 
to steal some young gentleman’s attention from his 
Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the 

9 


IO 


DEDICATION 


last century, and pack him to bed with some engaging 
images to mingle with his dreams. 

As for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask 
you to like the tale. But perhaps when he is older, 
your son will; he may then be pleased to find his 
father’s name on the fly-leaf; and in the meanwhile 
it pleases me to set it there, in memory of many days 
that were happy and some (now perhaps as pleasant 
to remember) that were sad. If it is strange for me 
to look back from a distance both in time and space 
on these bygone adventures of our youth, it must 
be stranger for you who tread the same streets — 
who may to-morrow open the door of the old Specu- 
lative, where we begin to rank with Scott and Robert 
Emmet and the beloved and inglorious Maclean — 
or may pass the corner of the close where that great 
society, the L. J. R., held its meetings and drank 
its beer, sitting in the seats of Burns and his com- 
panions. I think I see you, moving there by plain 
daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those 
places that have now become for your companion 
a part of the scenery of dreams. How, in the inter- 
vals of present business, the past must echo in your 
memory! Let it not echo often without some kind 
thoughts of your friend. 

R. L. S. 


Skerryvore, 

Bournemouth. 


KIDNAPPED 

BEING 

MEMOIRS OF THE ADVENTURES OF DAVID 
BALFOUR IN THE YEAR 1 75I 

CHAPTER I 

I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF 
SHAWS 

I will begin the story of my adventures with a 
certain morning early in the month of June, the year 
of grace 1751, when I took the key for the last time 
out of the door of my father’s house. The sun began 
to shine upon the summit of the hills as I went down 
the road; and by the time I had come as far as the 
manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the garden 
lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in 
the time of the dawn was beginning to arise and die 
away. 

Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was 
waiting for me by the garden gate, good man! He 
asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing that I 
lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his, 
and clapped it kindly under his arm. 

“Well, Davie, lad,” said he, “I will go with you as 
far as the ford, to set you on the way. ” 


12 


KIDNAPPED 


And we began to walk forward in silence. 

“Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?” said he, after 
a while. 

“Why, sir,” said I, “if I knew where I was going, 
or what was likely to become of me, I would tell you 
candidly. Essendean is a good place indeed, and 
I have been very happy there; but then I have never 
been anywhere else. My father and mother, since 
they are both dead, I shall be no nearer to in Essen- 
dean than in the Kingdom of Hungary; and to speak 
truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself 
where I was going, I would go with a good will.” 

“Ay?” said M. Campbell. “Very well, Davie. 
Then it behooves me to tell your fortune; or so far 
as I may. When your mother was gone, and your 
father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken 
for his end, he gave me in charge a certain letter, 
which he said was your inheritance. ‘So soon,’ 
says he, ‘ as I am gone, and the house is redd up and 
the gear disposed of’ (all which, Davie, hath been 
done) ‘give my boy this letter into his hand, and 
start him off to the house of Shaws, not far from 
Cramond. That is the place I came from,’ he said, 
‘and it’s where it befits that my boy should return. 
He is a steady lad,’ your father said, ‘and a canny 
goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well 
liked where he goes.’” 

“The house of Shaws!” I cried. “What had 
my poor father to do with the house of Shaws?” 

“Nay,” said Mr. Campbell, “who can tell that 
for a surety? But the name of that family, Davie 
boy, is the name you bear — Balfours of Shaws: 
an ancient, honest reputable house, peradventure in 
these latter days decayed. Your father, too, was a 
man of learning as befitted his position; no man 


KIDNAPPED 


13 


more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the 
manner or the speech of a common dominie; but 
(as ye will yourself remember) I took aye a pleasure 
to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and 
those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, 
Campbell of Dunswire, Campbell of Minch, and 
others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure in 
his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this 
affair before you, here is the testamentary letter itself, 
superscribed by the own hand of our departed 
brother. ” 

He gave me the letter, which was addressed in 
these words: “To the hands of Ebenezer Balfour, 
Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these will 
be delivered by my son, David Balfour. ” My heart 
was beating hard at this great prospect now suddenly 
opening before a lad of sixteen years of age, the son 
of a poor country dominie in the Forest of Ettrick. 

“Mr. Campbell,” I stammered, “and if you were 
in my shoes, would you go ? ” 

“Of a surety,” said the minister, “that would I, 
and without pause. A pretty lad like you should get 
to Cramond (which is nearin by Edinburgh) in two 
days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and 
your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them 
to be somewhat of your blood) should put you to 
the door, ye can but walk the two days back again 
and risp at the manse door. But I would rather 
hope that ye shall be well received, as your poor 
father forecast for you, and for anything that I ken, 
come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie 
laddie,” he resumed, “it lies upon my conscience to 
improve this parting, and set you on the right guard 
against the dangers of the world. ” 

Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted 


14 


KIDNAPPED 


on a big boulder under a birch by the trackside, 
sat down upon it with a very long, serious upper lip, 
and the sun now shining in upon us between two 
peaks, put his pocket handkerchief over his cocked 
hat to shelter him. There, then, with uplifted fore- 
finger, he first put me on my guard against a con- 
siderable number of heresies, to which I had no 
temptation, and urged upon me to be instant in my 
prayers and reading of the Bible. That done, 
he drew a picture of the great house that I was 
bound to, and how I should conduct myself with 
its inhabitants. 

“Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial,” said he. 
“Bear ye this in mind, that, though gentle born, ye 
have had a country rearing. Dinnae shame us, 
Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle 
house, with all these domestics, upper and under, 
show yourself as nice, as circumspect, as quick at the 
conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for 
the laird — remember he’s the laird; I say no more: 
honor to whom honor. It’s a pleasure to obey a 
laird: or should be, to the young. ” 

“Well, sir,” said I, “it may be; and I’ll promise 
you I’ll try to make it so. ” 

“Why, very well said,” replied Mr. Campbell, 
heartily. “And now to come to the material, or 
(to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here 
a little packet which contains four things.” He 
tugged it, as he spoke, and with some difficulty, 
from the skirt pocket of his coat. “Of these four 
things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle 
money for your father’s books and plenishing, which 
I have bought) as I have explained from the first) 
in the design of re-selling at a profit to the incoming 
dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. 


KIDNAPPED 


i5 


Campbell and myself would be blithe of your accep- 
tance. The first, which is round, will likely please 
ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie laddie, it’s 
but a drop of water in the sea; it’ll help you but a 
step, and vanish like the morning. The second, 
which is flat and square and written upon, will stand 
by you through life, like a good staff for the road, 
and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And 
as for the last, which is cubical, that’ll see you, it’s 
my prayerful wish, into a better land.” 

With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, 
and prayed a little while aloud, and in affecting 
terms, for a young man setting out into the world; 
then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced 
me very hard; then held me at arm’s length, looking 
at me with his face all working with sorrow; and 
then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, 
set off backward by the way that we had come at a 
sort of jogging run. It might have been laughable 
to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I 
watched him as long as he was in sight; and he 
never stopped hurrying, nor once looked back. 
Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his 
sorrow at my departure; and my conscience smote 
me hard and fast, because I, for my part, was over- 
joyed to get away out of that quiet country-side, 
and go to a great, busy house, among rich and re- 
spected gentlefolk of my own name and blood. 

“Davie, Davie,” I thought, “was ever seen such 
black ingratitude! Can you forget old favors and 
old friends at the mere whistle of a name? Fy, fy; 
think shame!” 

And I sat down on the boulder the good man had 
just left, and opened the parcel to see the nature 
of my gifts. That which he had called cubical, I 


i6 


KIDNAPPED 


had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was 
a little Bible, to carry in a plaid-neuk. That which 
he had called round, I found to be a shilling piece; 
and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully 
both in health and sickness all the days of my life 
was a little piece of coarse yellow paper, written 
upon thus in red ink: 

“To Make Lilly of the Valley Water. — Take 
the flowers of lilly of the valley and distil them in 
sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is occa- 
sion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb 
palsey. It is good against the Gout; it comforts the 
heart and strengthens the memory; and the flowers, 
put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill 
of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will 
find a liquor which comes from the flowers, which 
keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well, and whether 
man or woman. ” 

And then, in the minister’s own hand, was added: 

“Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, 
a great spooneful in the hour. ” 

To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather 
tremulous laughter; and I was glad to get my bundle 
on my staff’s end and set out over the ford and up 
the hill upon the further side, till, just as I came on 
the green drove-road running wide through the 
heather, I took my last look of Kirk Essendean, 
the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the 
kirkyard where my father and my mother lay. 


CHAPTER II 


I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END 

On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the 
top of a hill, I saw all the country fall away before 
me down to the sea; and in the midst of this descent, 
on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like 
a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships 
moving or lying anchored in the firth; both of which, 
for as far away as they were, I could distinguish 
clearly; and both brought my country heart into 
my mouth. 

Presently after, I came by a house where a shep- 
herd lived, and got a rough direction for the neigh- 
borhood of Cramond; and so, from one to another, 
worked my way to the westward of the capital by 
Colinton, till I came out upon the Glasgow road. 
And there, to my great pleasure and wonder, I beheld 
a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time; 
an old red-faced general on a gray horse at the one 
end, and at the other the company of Grenadiers, 
with their Pope’s-hats. The pride of life seemed 
to mount into my brain at the sight of the red-coats 
and the hearing of that merry music. 

A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond 
parish, and began to substitute in my inquiries the 
name of the house of Shaws. It was a word that 
seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. 
At first I thought the plainness of my appearance, 

17 


i8 


KIDNAPPED 


in my country habit, and that all dusty from the road, 
consorted ill with the greatness of the place to which 
I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had 
given me the same look and the same answer, I began 
to take it in my head there was something strange 
about the Shaws itself. 

The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the 
form of my inquiries; and spying an honest fellow 
coming along a lane on the shaft of his cart, I asked 
him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called 
the house of Shaws. 

He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the 
others. 

“Ah,” said he. “What for?” 

“It’s a great house?” I asked. 

“Doubtless,” says he. “The house is a big, 
muckle house. ” 

“Ay,” said I, “but the folk that are in it?” 

“Folk?” cries he. “Are ye daft? There’s nae 
folk there — to call folk. ” 

“What?” says I; “not Mr. Ebenezer?” 

“O, ay,” says the man; “there’s the laird, to be 
sure, if it’s him you’re Wanting. What’ll like be 
your business, mannie?” 

“I was led to think that I would get a situation,” 
I said, looking as modest as I could. 

“What?” cries the carter, in so sharp a note that 
his very horse started; and then, “Well, mannie,” 
he added, “it’s nane of my affairs; but ye seem a 
decent-spoken lad; and if ye’ll take a word from me, 
ye’ll keep clear of the Shaws. ” 

The next person I came across was a dapper little 
man in a beautiful white wig, whom I saw to be a 
barber on his rounds: and knowing well that 
barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly 


KIDNAPPED 


i9 


what sort of a man was Mr. Balfour of the 
Shaws. 

“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” said the barber, “nae kind 
of a man, nae kind of a man at all;” and began to 
ask me very shrewdly what my business was; but I 
was more than a match for him at that, and he went 
on to his next customer no wiser than he came. 

I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my 
illusions. The more indistinct the accusations were, 
the less I liked them, for they left the wider field to 
fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that 
all the parish should start and stare to be asked the 
way to it? or what sort of a gentleman, that his 
ill-fame should be thus current on the wayside? 
If an hour’s walking would have brought me back 
to Essendean, I had left my adventure then and there, 
and returned to Mr. Campbell’s. But when I had 
come so far away already, mere shame would not 
suffer me to desist till I had put the matter to the 
touch of proof; I was bound, out of mere self-respect, 
to carry it through; and little as I liked the sound 
of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still 
kept asking my way and still kept advancing. 

It was drawing onto sundown when I met a stout, 
dark, sour-looking woman coming trudging down a 
hill; and she, when I had put my usual question, 
turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the 
summit she had just left, and pointed to a great bulk 
of building standing very bare upon a green in the 
bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant 
round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered 
and wooded, and the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully 
good; but the house itself appeared to be a kind 
of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose 
from any of the chimneys; nor was there any 


20 


KIDNAPPED 


semblance of a garden. My heart sank. “That!” 
I cried. 

The woman’s face lit up with a malignant anger. 
“That is the house of Shaws!” she cried. “Blood 
built it; blood stopped the building of it; blood shall 
bring it down. See here!” she cried again — “I 
spit upon the ground, and crack my thumb at it! 
Black be its fall! If ye see the laird, tell him what 
ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and 
nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down 
the curse on him and his house, byre and stable, 
man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or bairn — black, 
black be their fall!” 

And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of 
eldritch sing-song, turned with a skip, and was gone. 
I stood where she left me, with my hair on end. 
In these days folks still believed in witches and 
trembled at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, 
like a wayside omen, to arrest me ere I carried out 
my purpose, took the pith out of my legs. 

I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. 
The more I looked, the pleasanter that country-side 
appeared; being all set with hawthorn bushes full 
of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight 
of rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil 
and climate; and yet the barrack in the midst of it 
went sore against my fancy. 

Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there 
on the side of the ditch, but I lacked the spirit to 
give them a good-e’en. At last the sun went down, 
and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a 
scroll of smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as 
it seemed to me, than the smoke of a candle; but 
still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and 
cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have 


KIDNAPPED 


21 


lit it ; and this comforted my heart wonderfully — 
more, I feel sure, than a whole flask of the lily of the 
valley water that Mrs Campbell set so great a store 
by. 

So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass 
that led in my direction. It was very faint indeed 
to be the only way to a place of habitation; yet I 
saw no other, Presently it brought me to stone up- 
rights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and 
coats of arms upon the top. A main entrance, it 
was plainly meant to be, but never finished; instead 
of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied 
across with a straw rope; and as there were no park 
walls, nor any sign of avenue, the track that I was 
following passed on the right hand of the pillars, 
and went wandering on toward the house. 

The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. 
It seemed like the one wing of a house that had 
never been finished. What should have been the 
inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed 
against the sky with steps and stairs of uncompleted 
masonry. Many of the windows were unglazed, 
and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote. 

The night had begun to fall as I got close; and 
in three of the lower windows, which were very high 
up, and narrow, and well barred the changing light 
of a little fire began to glimmer. 

Was this the palace I had been coming to? Was 
it within these walls that I was to seek new friends 
and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father’s 
house on Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright 
lights would show a mile away, and the door open 
to a beggar’s knock. 

I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I 
came, heard some one rattling with dishes, and a 


22 


KIDNAPPED 


little dry, eager cough that came in fits; but there 
was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked. 

The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, 
was a great piece of wood all studded with nails; 
and I lifted my hand with a faint heart under my 
jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. 
The house had fallen into a dead silence; a whole 
minute passed away, and nothing stirred but the bats 
overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again. 
By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to 
the quiet, that I could hear the ticking of the clock 
inside as it slowly counted out the seconds; but who- 
ever was in that house kept deadly still, and must 
have held his breath. 

I was in two minds whether to run away; but 
anger got the upper hand, and I began instead to 
rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout out 
aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when 
I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back 
and looking up, beheld a man’s head in a tall night- 
cap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of 
the first story windows. 

“It’s loaded,” said a voice. 

“I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. 
Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here ? ” 

“From whom is it?” asked the man with the 
blunderbuss. 

“That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was 
growing very wroth. 

“Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon 
the doorstep, and be off with ye. ” 

“I will do no such thing, ” I cried. “ I will deliver 
it into Mr. Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. 
It is a letter of introduction.” 

“A what?” cried the voice, sharply. 


KIDNAPPED 


23 


I repeated what I had said. 

“Who are ye, yourself?” was the next question, 
after a considerable pause. 

“ I am not ashamed of my name, ” said I. “They 
call me David Balfour.” 

At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard 
the blunderbuss rattle on the window-sill; and it 
was after quite a long pause, and with a curious 
change of voice, that the next question followed: 

“Is your father dead?” 

I was so much surprised at this, that I could find 
no voice to answer, but stood staring. 

“Ay,” the man resumed, “he’ll be dead, no doubt; 
and that’ll be what brings ye chapping to my door.” 
Another pause, and then, defiantly, “Well, man,” 
he said, “I’ll let ye in;” and he disappeared from the 
window. 


CHAPTER III 


I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE 

Presently there came a great rattling of chains 
and bolts, and the door was cautiously opened, and 
shut to again behind me as soon as I had passed. 

“Go into the kitchen and touch naething,” said 
the voice; and while the person of the house set 
himself to replacing the defenses of the door, I 
groped my way forward and entered the kitchen. 

The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed 
me the barest room I think I ever put my eyes on. 
Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves; the 
table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, 
a horn spoon, and a cup of small beer. Besides 
what I have named, there was not another thing in 
that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber, but lock- 
fast chests arranged along the wall and a corner 
cupboard with a padlock. 

As soon as the last chain was up the man rejoined 
me. He was a mean, stooping, narrow-shouldered, 
clay-faced creature; and his age might have been 
anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap 
was of flannel, and so was the nightgown that he wore 
instead of coat and waistcoat, over his ragged shirt. 
He was long unshaved; but what most distressed 
and even daunted me, he would neither take his 
eyes away from me nor look me fairly in the face. 
What he was, whether by trade or birth, was more 

24 


KIDNAPPED 


25 


than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an 
old, unprofitable serving-man, who should have been 
left in charge of that big house upon board wages. 

“Are ye sharp-set?” he asked, glancing at about 
the level of my knee. “Ye can eat that drop par- 
riteh. ” 

I said I feared it was his own supper. 

“ O, ” said he, “I can do fine wanting it. I’ll take 
the ale though, for it slockens* my cough.” He 
drank the cup about half out, still keeping an eye 
upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his 
hand. “Let’s see the letter,” said he. 

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for 
him. 

“And who do ye think I am?” says he. “Give 
me Alexander’s letter!” 

“You know my father’s name?” 

“It would be strange if I didnae,” he returned, 
“for he was my born brother; and little as ye seem 
to like either me or my house, or my good parritch, 
I’m your born uncle, Davie my man, and you my 
born nephew. So give us the letter, and sit down 
and fill your kyte. ” 

If I had been some years younger, what with 
shame, weariness, and disappointment, I believe I 
had burst into tears. As it was, I could find no 
words, neither black nor white, but handed him the 
letter, and sat down to the porridge with as little 
appetite for meat as ever a young man had. 

Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, 
turned the letter over and over in his hands. 

“Do ye ken what’s in it?” he asked suddenly. 

“You see for yourself, sir,” said I, “that the seal 
has not been broken. ” 


26 


KIDNAPPED 


“Ay,” said he, “but what brought you here?” 

“To give the letter,” said I. 

“No,” says he, cunningly, “but ye’ll have had 
some hopes, nae doubt?” 

“I confess, sir,” said I, “when I was told that I 
had kinsfolk well-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope 
that they might help me in my life. But I am no 
beggar; I look for no favors at your hands, and I 
want none that are not freely given. For as poor 
as I appear, I have friends of my own that will be 
blithe to help me.” 

“Hoot-hoot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “dinnae fly 
up in the snuff at me. We’ll agree fine yet. And, 
Davie my man, if you’re done with that bit parritch, 
I could just take a sup of it myself. Ay, ” he con- 
tinued, as soon as he had ousted me from the stool 
and spoon, “they’re fine, halesome food — they’re 
grand food, parritch. ” He murmured a little grace 
to himself and fell to. “Your father was very fond 
of his meat, I mind; he was a hearty, if not a great 
eater; but as for me, I could never do mair than 
pyke at food.” He took a pull at the small beer, 
which probably reminded him of hospitable duties; 
for his next speech ran thus: “If ye’re dry, ye’ll 
find water behind the door. ” 

To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on 
my two feet, and looking down upon my uncle with 
a mighty angry heart. He, on his part, continued 
to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and 
to throw out little darting glances now at my shoes 
and now at my homespun stockings. Once only, 
when he had ventured to look a little higher, our 
eyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man’s 
pocket could have shown more lively signals of 
distress. This set me in a muse, whether his timidity 


KIDNAPPED 


27 


arose from too long a disuse of any human company; 
and whether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might 
pass off, and my uncle change into an altogether dif- 
ferent man. From this I was awakened by his sharp 
voice. 

“Your father’s been long dead?” he asked. 

“Three weeks, sir,” said I. 

“He was a secret man, Alexander; a secret, silent 
man,” he continued. “He never said muckle when 
he was young. He’ll never have spoken muckle of 
me?” 

“I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself, 
that he had any brother. ” 

“Dear me, dear me!” said Ebenezer. “Nor yet 
of Shaws, I daresay?” 

“Not so much as the name, sir,” said I. 

“To think o’ that!” said he. “A strange nature 
of a man!” For all that, he seemed singularly 
satisfied, but whether with himself, or me, or with 
this conduct of my father’s, was more than I could 
read. Certainly, however, he seemed to be out- 
growing that distaste, or ill will, that he had conceived 
at first against my person; for presently he jumped 
up, came across the room behind me, and hit me a 
smack upon the shoulder. “ We’ll agree fine yet! ” he 
cried. “I’m just as glad I let you in. And now 
come awa’ to your bed. ” 

To my surprise, he lit no lamp or candle, but set 
forth into the dark passage, groped his way, breath- 
ing deeply, up a flight of steps, and paused before 
a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his 
heels, having stumbled after him as best I might; 
and he bade me go in, for that was my chamber. 
I did as he bid, but paused after a few steps, and 
begged a light to go to bed with. • 


28 


KIDNAPPED 


“ Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “there’s a 
fine moon.” 

“Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-mirk,”* 
said I. “I cannae see the bed.” 

“Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!” said he. “Lights in a 
house is a thing I dinnae agree with. I’m unco 
feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie my man.” 
And before I had time to add a further protest, he 
pulled the door to, and I heard him lock me in from 
the outside. 

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The 
room was as cold as a well, and the bed, when I 
had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but 
by good fortune I had caught up my bundle and 
my plaid, and rolling myself in the latter, I lay down 
upon the floor under the lee of the big bedstead, 
and fell speedily asleep. 

With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to 
find myself in a great chamber, hung with stamped 
leather, furnished with fine embroidered furniture, 
and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or 
perhaps twenty, it must have been as pleasant a 
room to lie down or to awake in as a man could wish ; 
but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders 
had done their worst since then. Many of the win- 
dow-panes, besides, were broken; and indeed this 
was so common a feature in that house, that I believe 
my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from 
his indignant neighbors — perhaps with Jennet 
Clouston at their head. 

Meanwhile the sun was shining outside; and 
being very cold in that miserable room, I knocked 
and shouted till my jailer came and let me out. He 
carried me to the back of the house, where was a 

* Dark as the pit. 


KIDNAPPED 


29 


draw-well, and told me to “wash my face there, 
if I wanted;” and when that was done, I made the 
best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he 
had lit the fire and was making the porridge. The 
table was laid with two bowls and two horn spoons, 
but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps 
my eye rested on this particular with some surprise, 
and perhaps my uncle observed it; for he spoke up 
as if in answer to my thought, asking me if I would 
like to drink ale — for so he called it. 

I told him such was my habit, but not to put him- 
self about. 

“Na, na,” said he; “I’ll deny you nothing in 
reason. ” 

He fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, 
to my great surprise, instead of drawing more beer, he 
poured an accurate half from one cup to the other. 
There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my 
breath away; if my uncle was certainly a miser, 
he was one of that thorough breed that goes near to 
make the vice respectable. 

When we had made an end of our meal, my uncle 
Ebenezer unlocked a drawer, and drew out of it a 
clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which he cut 
one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat 
down in the sun at one of the windows and silently 
smoked. From time to time his eyes came coasting 
round to me, and he shot out one of his questions. 
Once it was, “And your mother?” and when I had 
told him that she, too, was dead, “Ay, she was a 
bonnie lassie!” Then after another long pause, 
“Whae were these friends o’ yours?” 

I told him they were different gentlemen of the 
name of Campbell; though, indeed, there was only 
one, and that the minister, that had ever taken the 


3 ° 


KIDNAPPED 


least note of me; but I began to think my uncle made 
too light of my position, and finding myself all alone 
with him, I did not wish him to suppose me helpless. 

He seemed to turn this over in his mind; and 
then, “ Davie my man,” said he, “ye’ve come to 
the right bit when ye came to your Uncle Ebenezer. 
I’ve a great notion of the family, and I mean to do 
the right by you; but while I’m taking a bit think 
to mysel’ of what’s the best thing to put you to — 
whether the law, or the meenistry, or maybe the army 
whilk is what boys are fondest of — I wouldnae like 
the Balfours to be humbled before a wheen Hieland 
Campbells, and I’ll ask you to keep your tongue 
within your teeth. Nae letters; nae messages; no 
kind of word to onybody ; or else — there’s my door. ” 
“Uncle Ebenezer,” said I, “I’ve no manner of 
reason to suppose you mean anything but well by me. 
For all that, I would have you to know that I have 
a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that 
I came seeking you; and if you show me your door 
again, I’ll take you at the word. ” 

He seemed grievously put out. “ Hoots-toots, ” 
said he, “ca’ cannie, man — ca’ cannie! Bide a 
day or two. I’m nae warlock, to find a fortune for 
you in the bottom of a parritch bowl; but just you 
give me a day or two, and say naething to naebody, 
and as sure as sure, I’ll do the right by you. ” 

“Very well,” said I, “enough said. “If you 
want to help me, there’s no doubt but I’ll be glad 
of it, and none but I’ll be grateful. ” 

It seemed to me (too soon, I daresay) that I was 
getting the upper hand of my uncle; and I began 
next to say that I must have the bed and bedclothes 
aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make 
me sleep in such a pickle. 


KIDNAPPED 


3i 


“Is this my house or yours ?” said he, in his keen 
voice, and then all of a sudden broke off. “Na, 
na,” said he, “I dinnae mean that. What’s mine 
is yours, Davie my man, and what’s yours is mine. 
Blood’s thicker than water; and there’s naebody 
but you and me that ought the name.” And then 
on he rambled about the family, and its ancient 
greatness, and his father that began to enlarge the 
house, and himself that stopped the building as a 
sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him 
Jennet Clouston’s message. 

“The limmer!” he cried. “Twelve hunner and 
fifteen — that’s every day since I had the limmer 
rowpit!* Dod, David, I’ll have her roasted on red 
peats before I’m by with it! A witch — a proclaimed 
witch! I’ll aff and see the session clerk.” 

And with that he opened a chest, and got out a 
very old and well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, 
and a good enough beaver hat, both without lace. 
These he threw on anyway, and taking a staff from 
the cupboard, locked up all again, and was for setting 
out, when a thought arrested him. 

“I cannae leave you by yoursel’ in the house,” 
said he. “ I’ll have to lock you out. ” 

The blood came into my face. “If you lock me 
out,” I said, “it’ll be the last you see of me in friend- 
ship. ” 

He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in. 

“This is no the way,” he said, looking wickedly 
at a corner of the floor — “this is no the way to 
win my favor, David. ” 

“Sir,” says I, “with a proper reverence for your 
age and our common blood, I do not value your 
favor at a boddle’s purchase. I was brought up 

* Sold up. 


32 


KIDNAPPED 


to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were 
all the uncle, and all the family, I had in the world 
ten times over, I wouldn’t buy your liking at such 
prices. ” 

Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window 
for a while. I could plainly see him all trembling 
and twitching, like a man with palsy. But when 
he turned round, he had a smile upon his face. 

“Well, well,” said he, “we must bear and forbear. 
I’ll no go; that’s all that’s to be said of it. ” 

“Uncle Ebenezer,” said I, “I can make nothing 
out of this. You use me like a thief; you hate to 
have me in this house; you let me see it, every word 
and every minute; it’s not possible that you can 
like me; and as for me, I’ve spoken to you as I never 
thought to speak to any man. Why do you seek 
to keep me, then? Let me gang back — let me 
gang back to the friends I have, and that like me!” 

“Na, na; na, na, ” he said, very earnestly. “I 
like you fine; we’ll agree fine yet; and for the honor 
of the house I couldnae let you leave the way ye 
came. Bide here quiet, there’s a good lad; just 
you bide here quiet a bittie, and ye’ll find that we 
agree.” 

“Well, sir,” said I, after I had thought the matter 
out in silence, “I’ll stay a while. It’s more just I 
should be helped by my own blood than strangers; 
and if we don’t agree, I’ll do my best it shall be 
through no fault of mine. ” 


CHAPTER IV 


I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS 

For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed 
fairly well. We had the porridge cold again at noon, 
and hot porridge at night: porridge and small beer 
was my uncle’s diet. He spoke but little, and that 
in the same way as before, shooting a question at me 
after a long silence; and when I sought to lead him 
in talk about my future, slipped out of it again. 
In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered 
me to go, I found a great number of books, both 
Latin and English, in which I took great pleasure 
all the afternoon. Indeed the time passed so lightly 
in this good company, that I began to be almost rec- 
onciled to my residence at Shaws; and nothing but 
the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing hide and 
seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust. 

One thing I discovered, which put me in some 
doubt. This was an entry on the fly-leaf of a chap- 
book (one of Patrick Walker’s) plainly written by 
my father’s hand and thus conceived: “To my 
brother Ebenezer on his fifth birthday.” Now, 
what puzzled me was this: That as my father was of 
course the younger brother, he must either have 
made some strange error, or he must have written, 
before he was yet five, an excellent, clear, manly 
hand of writing. 

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I 

33 


34 


KIDNAPPED 


took down many interesting authors, old and new, 
history, poetry, and story-book, this notion of my 
father’s hand of writing stuck to me; and when at 
length I went back into the kitchen, and sat down 
once more to porridge and small beer, the first thing 
I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my father 
had not been very quick at the book. 

“Alexander? No him!” was the reply. “I was 
far quicker myseP; I was a clever chappie when I 
was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could. ” 

This puzzled me yet more: and a thought coming 
into my head, I asked if he and my father had been 
twins. 

He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon 
fell out of his hand upon the floor. “What gars ye 
ask that?” he said, and caught me by the breast of 
the jacket, and looked this time straight into my 
eyes; his own, which were little and light, and bright 
like a bird’s, blinking and winking strangely. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, very calmly, for 
I was far Stronger than he, and not easily frightened. 
“Take your hand from my jacket. This is no way 
to behave.” 

My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon 
himself. “Dod, man David,” he said, “ye should- 
nae speak to me about your father. That’s where 
the mistake is. ” He sat a while and shook, blinking 
in his plate: “He was all the brother that ever I 
had,” he added, but with no heart in his voice; and 
then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, 
but still shaking. 

Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my 
person and sudden profession of love for my dead 
father, went so clean beyond my comprehension that 
it put me into both fear and hope. On the one 


KIDNAPPED 


35 


hand, I began to think my uncle was perhaps* insane 
and might be dangerous; on the other, there came 
up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even 
discouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard 
folk singing, of a poor lad that was a rightful heir 
and a wicked kinsman that tried to keep him from 
his own. For why should my uncle play a part 
with a relative that came, almost a beggar, to his 
door, unless in his heart he had some cause to fear 
him? 

With this notion, all unacknowledged, but never- 
theless getting firmly settled in my head, I now 
began to imitate his covert looks; so that we sat at 
table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing 
the other. Not another word had he to say to me, 
black or white, but was busy turning something 
secretly over in his mind; and the longer we sat 
and the more I looked at him, the more certain 
I became that the something was unfriendly to 
myself. 

When he had cleared the platter, he got out a 
single pipeful of tobacco, just as in the morning, 
turned round a stool into the chimney corner, and 
sat a while smoking, with his back to me. 

“Davie,” he said, at length, “I’ve been thinking;” 
then he paused, and said it again. “There’s a wee 
bit siller that I half promised ye before ye were born, ” 
he continued; “promised it to your father. O, 
naething legal, ye understand; just gentleman 
daffing at their wine. Well, I keepit that bit money 
separate — it was a great expense, but a promise 
is a promise — and it has grown by now to be a 
maitter of just precisely — just exactly” — and 
here he paused and stumbled — “of just exactly 
forty pounds!” This last he rapped out with a 


36 


KIDNAPPED 


sidelong glance over his shoulder; and the next 
moment added, almost with a scream, “Scots!” 

The pound Scots being the same thing as an 
English shilling, the difference made by this second 
thought was considerable; I could see, besides, 
that the whole story was a lie, invented with some 
end which it puzzled me to guess; and I made no 
attempt to conceal the tone of raillery in which I 
answered: 

“O, think again, sir! Pounds sterling, I believe!” 

“That’s what I said, ” returned my uncle; “pounds 
sterling! And if you’ll step out-by to the door a 
minute, just to see what kind of a night it is, I’ll 
get it out to ye and call ye in again. ” 

I did his will, smiling to myself in my contempt 
that he should think I was so easily to be deceived. 
It was a dark night, with a few stars low down; 
and as I stood just outside the door, I heard a 
hollow moaning of wind far off among the hills. 

I said to myself there was something thundery and 
changeful in the weather, and little knew of what 
a vast importance that should prove to me before 
the evening passed. 

When I was called in again, my uncle counted 
out into my hand seven and thirty golden guinea 
pieces; the rest was in his hands, in small gold and 
silver; but his heart failed him there, and he crammed 
the change into his pocket. 

“There, ” said he, “that’ll show you ! I’m a queer 
man, and strange wi’ strangers; but my word is my 
bond, and there’s the proof of it. ” 

Now, my uncle seemed so miserly that I was 
struck dumb by this sudden generosity, and could 
find no words in which to thank him. 

“No a word!” said he. “Nae thanks; I want 


KIDNAPPED 


37 


nae thanks. I do my duty; I’m no saying that 
everybody would have done it; but for my part 
(though I’m a careful body, too) it’s a pleasure to 
me to do the right by my brother’s son; and it’s a 
pleasure to me to think that now we’ll agree as such 
near friends should. ” 

I spoke him in return as handsomely as I was able; 
but all the while I was wondering what would come 
next, and why he had parted with his precious 
guineas; for as to the reason he had given, a baby 
would have refused it. 

Presently, he looked toward me sideways: 

“And see here,” says he, “tit for tat.” 

I told him I was ready to prove my gratitude in 
any reasonable degree, and then waited, looking 
for some monstrous demand. And yet, when at 
last he plucked up courage to speak, it was only 
to tell me (very properly, as I thought) that he was 
growing old and a little broken, and that he would 
expect me to help him with the house and the bit 
garden. 

I answered, and expressed my readiness to serve. 

“Well,” he said, “let’s begin.” He pulled out of 
his pocket a rusty key. “There, ’’says he “there’s 
the key of the stair-tower at the far end of the house. 
Ye can only win into it from the outside, for that 
part of the house is no finished. Gang ye in there, 
and up the stairs, and bring me down the chest that’s 
at the top. There’s papers in it,” he added. 

“Can I have a light, sir?” said I. 

. “Na,” said he, very cunningly. “Na lights in 
my house. ” 

“Very well, sir,” said I. “Are the stairs 
good?” 

“They’re grand,” said he; and then as I was 


38 


KIDNAPPED 


going, “Keep to the wall,” he added; there’s nae 
banisters. But the stairs are grand underfoot.” 

Out I went into the night. The wind was still 
moaning in the distance, though never a breath of it 
came near the house of Shaws. It had fallen blacker 
than ever; and I was glad to feel along the wall,- 
till I came the length of the stair-tower door at the 
far end of the unfinished wing. I had got the key 
into the keyhole and had just turned it, when all 
upon a sudden, without sound of wind or thunder, 
the whole sky was lighted up with wild fire and went 
black again. I had to put my hand over my eyes 
to get back to the color of the darkness; and indeed 
I was already half-blinded when I stepped into the 
tower. 

It was so dark inside, it seemed a body could 
scarce breathe; but I pushed out with foot and 
hand, and presently struck the wall with the one, 
and the lowermost round of the stair with the other. 
The wall, by the touch,- was of fine hewn stone; 
the steps too, though somewhat steep and narrow, 
were of polished mason-work, and regular and 
solid underfoot. Minding my uncle’s word about 
the banisters, I kept close to the tower side, and 
felt my way up in the pitch darkness with a beating 
heart. 

The house of Shaws stood some five full stories 
high, not counting lofts. Well, as I advanced, it 
seemed to me the stair grew airier and a thought 
more lightsome; and I was wondering what might 
be the cause of this change, when a second blink 
of the summer lightning came and went. If I did 
not cry out, it was because fear had me by the throat; 
and if I did not fall, it was more by Heaven’s mercy 
than my own strength. It was not only that the flash 


KIDNAPPED 


39 


shone in on every side through breaches in the wall, 
so that I seemed to be clambering aloft upon an open 
scaffold, but the same passing brightness showed me 
the steps were of unequal length, and that one of 
my feet rested that moment within two inches of the 
well. 

This was the grand stair! I thought; and with 
the thought, a gust of a kind of angry courage came 
into my heart. My uncle had sent me here, cer- 
tainly to run great risks, perhaps to die. I swore 
I would settle that “perhaps,” if I should break 
my neck for it; got me down upon my hands and 
knees; and as slowly as a snail, feeling before me 
every inch, and testing the solidity of every stone, 
I continued to ascend the stair. The darkness, by 
contrast with the flash, appeared to have redoubled; 
nor was that all; for my ears were now troubled 
and my mind confounded by a great stir of bats 
in the top part of the tower, and the foul beasts, 
flying downward, sometimes beat about my face 
and body. 

The tower, I should have said, was square; and in 
every corner the step was made of a great stone of a 
different shape, to join the flights. Well, I had 
come close to one of these turns, when, feeling for- 
ward as usual, my hand slipped upon an edge and 
found nothing but emptiness beyond it. The stair 
had been carried no higher: to set a stranger mount- 
ing it in the darkness was to send him straight to his 
death; and (although, thanks to the lightning and 
my own precautions, 1 was safe enough) the mere 
thought of the peril in which I might have stood, 
and the dreadful height I might have fallen from, 
brought out the sweat upon my body and relaxed 
my joints. 


40 


KIDNAPPED 


But I knew what I wanted now, and turned and 
groped my way down again, with a wonderful anger 
in my heart. About half-way down, the wind 
sprang up in a clap and shook the tower, and died 
again; the rain followed; and before I had reached 
the ground level, it fell in buckets. I put out my 
head into the storm, and looked along toward the 
kitchen. The door, which I had shut behind me 
when I left, now stood open, and shed a little glimmer 
of light; and I thought I could see a figure standing 
in the rain, quite still, like a man hearkening. And 
then there came a blinding flash, which showed me 
my uncle plainly, just where I had fancied him to 
stand; and hard upon the heels of it, a great tow- 
row of thunder. 

Now, whether my uncle thought the crash to be the 
sound of my fall, or whether he heard in it God’s 
voice denouncing murder, I will leave you to guess. 
Certain it is, at least, that he was seized on by a kind 
of panic fear, and that he ran into the house and 
left the door open behind him. I followed as softly 
as I could, and coming unheard into the kitchen, 
stood and watched him. 

He had found time to open the corner cupboard 
and bring out a great case bottle of aqua vitae, and 
now sat with his back toward me at the table. Ever 
and again he would be seized with a fit of deadly 
shuddering and groan aloud, and carrying the bottle 
to his lips, drink down the raw spirits by the mouth- 
ful. 

I stepped forward, came close behind him where 
he sat, and suddenly clapping my two hands down 
up his shoulders — “Ah!” cried I. 

My uncle gave a kind of broken cry like a sheep’s 
bleat, flung up his arms, and tumbled to the floor 


KIDNAPPED 


4i 


like a dead man. I was somewhat shocked at this; 
but I had myself to look to first of all, and did not 
hesitate to let him lie as he had fallen. The keys 
were hanging in the cupboard; and it was my design 
to furnish myself with arms before my uncle should 
come again to his senses and the power of devising 
evil. In the cupboard were a few bottles, some 
apparently of medicine; a great many bills and 
other papers, which I should willingly enough have 
rummaged, had I had the time ; and a few necessaries 
that were nothing to my purpose. Thence I turned 
to the chests. The first was full of meal; the second 
of money-bags and papers tied into sheaves; in the 
third, with many other things (and these for the most 
part clothes) I found a rusty, ugly looking Highland 
dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I concealed 
inside my waistcoat, and turned to my uncle. 

He lay as he had fallen, all huddled, with one 
knee up and one arm sprawling abroad; his face 
had a strange color of blue, and he seemed to have 
ceased breathing. Fear came on me that he was 
dead; then I got water and dashed it in his face; 
and with that he seemed to come a little to himself, 
working his mouth and fluttering his eyelids. At 
last he looked up and saw me, and there came into 
his eyes a terror that was not of this world. 

“Come, come,” said I, “sit up.” 

“Are ye alive?” he sobbed. “O man, are ye 
alive ?’ ’ 

“That I am,” said I. “Small thanks to you!” 

He had begun to seek for his breath with deep 
sighs. “The blue phial,” said he — “in the aumry 
— the blue phial.” His breath came slower still. 

I ran to the cupboard, and, sure enough, found 
there a blue phial of medicine, with the dose written 


42 


KIDNAPPED 


on it on a paper, and this I administered to him with 
what speed I might. 

“It’s the trouble,” said he, reviving a little; “I 
have a trouble, Davie. It’s the heart. ” 

I set him on a chair and looked at him. It is true I 
felt some pity for a man that looked so sick, but I 
was full besides of righteous anger; and I numbered 
over before him the points on which I wanted ex- 
planation: why he lied to me at every word; why 
he feared that I should leave him; why he disliked 
it to be hinted that he and my father were twins — 
“Is that because it is true?” I asked; why he had 
given me money to which I was convinced I had no 
claim; and, last of all, why he had tried to kill me. 
He heard me all through in silence; and then, in a 
broken voice, begged me to let him go to bed. 

“I’ll tell ye the morn,” he said; “as sure as death 
I will.” 

And so weak was he that I could do nothing but 
consent. I locked him into his room, however, 
and pocketed the key, and then returning to the 
kitchen, made up such a blaze as had not shone 
there for many a long year, and wrapping myself 
in my plaid, lay down upon the chests and fell asleep. 


CHAPTER V 


I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY 

Much rain fell in the night; and the next morn- 
ing there blew a bitter wintry wind out of the 
northwest, driving scattered clouds. For all that, 
and before the sun began to peep or the last of the 
stars had vanished, I made my way to the side of 
the burn, and had a plunge in a deep whirling pool. 
All aglow from my bath, I sat down once more be- 
side the fire, which I replenished, and began gravely 
to consider my position. 

There was now no doubt about my uncle’s en- 
mity; there was no doubt I carried my life in my 
hand, and he would leave no stone unturned that he 
might compass my destruction. But I was young 
and spirited, and like most lads that have been 
country-bred, I had a great opinion of my shrewd- 
ness. I had come to his door no better than a beg- 
gar and little more than a child; he had met with 
treachery and violence; it would be a fine con- 
summation to take the upper hand, and drive him 
like a herd of sheep. 

I sat there nursing my knee and smiling at the 
fire; and I saw myself in fancy smell out his secrets 
one after another, and grow to be that man’s king 
and ruler. The warlock of Essendean, they say, 
had made a mirror in which men could read the 
future; it must have been of other stuff than burn- 

43 


44 


KIDNAPPED 


ing coal; for in all the shapes and pictures that I 
sat and gazed at, there was never a ship, never a 
seaman with a hairy cap, never a big bludgeon 
for my silly head, or the least sign of all those 
tribulations that were ripe to fall on me. 

Presently, all swollen with conceit, I went up- 
stairs and gave my prisoner his liberty. He gave 
me good-morning civilly; and I gave the same to 
him, smiling down upon him from the heights of 
my sufficiency. Soon we were set to breakfast, 
as it might have been the day before. 

“Well, sir,” said I, with a jeering tone, “have 
you nothing more to say to me?” And then, as 
he made no articulate reply, “It will be time, I 
think, to understand each other,” I continued. 
“You took me for a country Johnnie Raw, with 
no more mother- wit or courage than a porridge- 
stick. I took you for a good man, or no worse 
than others at least. It seems we were both wrong. 
What cause you have to fear me, to cheat me, and 
to attempt my life ” 

He murmured something about a jest, and that 
he liked a bit of fun; and then, seeing me smile, 
changed his tone, and assured me he would make 
all clear as soon as we had breakfasted. I saw 
by his face that he had no lie ready for me, though 
he was hard at work preparing one; and I think 
I was about to tell him so, when we were inter- 
rupted by a knocking at the door. 

Bidding my unde sit where he was, I went to 
open it, and found on the doorstep a half-grown 
boy in sea-clothes. He had no sooner seen me 
than he began to dance some steps of the sea- 
hornpipe (which I had never before heard of, far 
less seen) snapping his fingers in the air and footing 


KIDNAPPED 


45 


it right cleverly. For all that, he was blue with 
the cold; and there was something in his face, 
a look between tears and laughter, that was highly 
pathetic and consorted ill with his gayety of manner. 

“What cheer, mate?” says he, with a cracked 
voice. 

I asked him soberly to name his pleasure. 

“O, pleasure!” says he; and then began to sing: 

“ For it’s my delight, of a shiny night 
In the season of the year.” 

“Well,” said I, “if you have no pleasure at all, 
I will even \>e so unmannerly as shut you out.” 

“Stay, brother!” he cried. “Have you no 
fun about you ? or do you want to get me thrashed ? 
I’ve brought a letter from old Heasy-oasy to Mr. 
Belflower.” He showed me a letter as he spoke. 
“And I say, mate,” he added, “I’m mortal hungry.” 

“Well,” said I, “come into the house, and you 
shall have a bite if I go empty for it.” 

With that I brought him in and set him down 
to my own place, where he fell-to greedily on the 
remains of breakfast, winking to me between 
whiles, and making many faces, which I think the 
poor soul considered manly. Meanwhile, my 
uncle had read the letter and sat thinking; then, 
suddenly, he got to his feet with a great air of live- 
liness, and pulled me apart into the furthest corner 
of the room. 

“Read that,” said he, and put the letter in my 
hand. 

Here it is, lying before me as I write: 

“The Hawes Inn, at the Queen’s Ferry. 

“Sir — I lie here with my hawser up and down, and send 
my cabin-boy to inf orme. If you have any further commands 
for over-seas, to-day will be the last occasion, as the wind 


4 6 


KIDNAPPED 


will serve us well out of the firth. I will not seek to deny 
that I have had crosses with your doer,* Mr. Rankeillor; 
of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to see some 
losses follow. I have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin, 
and am, sir, your most obedt., humble servant. 

Elias Hoseason.” 

“You see, Davie,” resumed my uncle, as soon as 
he saw that I had done, “I have a venture with 
this man Hoseason, the captain of a trading brig, 
the Covenant , of Dysart. Now, if you and me was 
to walk over with yon lad, I could see the captain 
at the Hawes, or maybe on board the Covenant , 
if there was papers to be signed; and so far from 
a loss of time, we can jog on to the lawyer, Mr. 
Rankeillor’s. After a’ that’s come and gone, ye 
would be swierj- to believe me upon my naked 
word; but ye’ll can believe Rankeillor. He’s 
factor to half the gentry in these parts; an auld 
man, forby; highly respeckit; and he kenned 
your father.” 

I stood awhile and thought. I was going to 
some place of shipping, which was doubtless popu- 
lous, and where my uncle durst attempt no violence, 
and, indeed, even the society of the cabin-boy so 
far protected me. Once there, I believed I could 
force on the visit to the lawyer, even if my uncle 
were now insincere in proposing it; and perhaps, 
in the bottom of my heart, I wished a nearer view 
of the sea and ships. You are to remember I had 
lived all my life in the inland hills, and just two 
days before had my first sight of the firth lying like 
a blue floor, and the sailed ships moving on the 
face of it, no bigger than toys. One thing with 
another, I made up my mind. 

* Agent. 

t Unwilling? 


KIDNAPPED 


47 


“Very well,” says I, “let us go to the ferry.” 

My uncle got into his hat and coat, and buckled 
an old rusty cutlass on; and then we trod the fire 
out, locked the door, and set forth upon our walk. 

The wind, being in that cold quarter, the north- 
west, blew nearly in our faces as we went. It was 
the month of June; the grass was all white with 
daisies and the trees with blossom; but, to judge 
by our blue nails and aching wrists, the time might 
have been winter and the whiteness a December frost. 

Uncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from 
side to side like an old ploughman coming home 
from work. He never said a word the whole way; 
and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He 
told me his name was Ransome, and that he had 
followed the sea since he was nine, but could not 
say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. 
He showed me tattoo marks, baring his breast in 
the teeth of the wind and in spite of my remon- 
strances, for I thought it was enough to kill him; 
he swore horribly whenever he remembered, but 
more like a silly schoolboy than a man; and boasted 
of many wild and bad things that he had done; 
stealthy thefts, false accusations, ay, and even mur- 
der; but all with such a dearth of likelihood in the 
details, and such a weak and crazy swagger in the 
delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to be- 
lieve him. 

I asked him of the brig (which he declared was 
the finest ship that sailed) and of Captain Hosea- 
son, in whose praise he was equally loud. Heasy- 
oasy (for so he still named the skipper) was a man, 
by his account, that minded for nothing either in 
heaven or earth; one that, as people said, would 
“crack on all sail into the day of judgment”; rough, 


KIDNAPPED 


*8 

fierce, unscrupulous, and brutal; and all this my 
poor cabin-boy had taught himself to admire as 
something seamanlike and manly. He would only 
admit one flaw in his idol. “He ain’t no seaman,” 
he admitted. “That’s Mr. Shuan that navigates 
the brig; he’s the finest seaman in the trade, only 
for drink; and I tell you I believe it! Why, look 
’ere”; and turning down his stocking, he showed 
me a great, raw, red wound that made my blood 
run cold. “He done that — Mr. Shuan done 
it,” he said, with an air of pride. 

“What!” I cried, “do you take such savage 
usage at his hands? Why, you are no slave to be 
so handled!” 

“No,” said the poor moon-calf, changing his 
tune at once, “and so he’ll find! See ’ere”; and 
he showed me a great case-knife, which he told 
me was stolen. 

“O,” says he, “let me see him try; I dare him 
to; I’ll do for him! O, he ain’t the first!” And 
he confirmed it with a poor, silly, ugly oath. 

I have never felt such a pity for any one in this 
wide world as I felt for that half-witted creature; 
and it began to come over me that the brig Covenant 
(for all her pious name) was little better than a hell 
upon the seas. 

“Have you no friends?” said I. 

He said he had a father in some English seaport, 
I forget which. “He was a fine man, too,” he 
said; “but he’s dead.” 

“In Heaven’s name,” cried I, “can you find no 
reputable life on shore?” 

“O, no!” says he, winking and looking very 
sly; “they would put me to a trade. I know a 
trick worth two of that, I do!” 


KIDNAPPED 


49 


I asked him what trade could be so dreadful as 
the one he followed, where he ran the continual peril 
of his life, not alone from wind and sea, but by the 
the horrid cruelty of those who were his masters. 
He said it was very true; and then began to praise 
the life, and tell what a pleasure it was to get on 
shore with money in his pocket, and spend it like a 
man and buy apples, and swagger, and surprise 
what he called stick-in-the-mud boys. “And 
then it’s not all as bad as that,” says he; “there’s 
worse off than me: there’s the twenty-pounders. 
O, laws! you should see them taking on. Why, 
I’ve seen a man as old as you, I dessay” — (to 
him I seemed old) — “ah, and he had a beard, 
too — well, and as soon as we cleaned out of the 
river, and he had the drug out of his head — my ! 
how he cried and carried on! I made a fine fool 
of him, I tell you! And then there’s little uns, too: 
O, little by me! I tell you, I keep them in order. 
When we carry little uns, I have a rope’s end of my 
own to wollop ’em.” And so he ran on, until it 
came in on me that what he meant by twenty-pound- 
ers were those unhappy criminals who were sent 
over-seas to slavery in North America, or the still 
more unhappy innocents who were kidnapped or 
trepanned (as the word went) for private interests 
or vengeance. 

Just then we came to the top of the hill, and looked 
down on the ferry and the hope. The Firth of Forth 
(as is very well known) narrows at this point to the 
width of a good-sized river, which makes a con- 
venient ferry going north, and turns the upper 
reach into a land-locked haven for all manner of 
ships. Right in the midst of the narrows lies an 
islet with some ruins; on the south shore they have 


5 ° 


KIDNAPPED 


built a pier for the service of the ferry; and at the 
end of the pier, on the other side of the road, and 
backed against a pretty garden of holly-trees and 
hawthorns, I could see the building which they 
call the Hawes Inn. 

The town of Queensferry lies farther west, and the 
neighborhood of the inn looked pretty lonely at 
that time of day, for the boat had just gone north 
with passengers. A skiff, however, lay beside the 
pier, with some seamen sleeping on the thwarts; 
this, as Ransome told me, was the brig’s boat wait- 
ing for the captain; and about half a mile off, 
and all alone in the anchorage, he showed me the 
Covenant herself. There was a sea-going bustle 
on board; yards were swinging into place; and as 
the wind blew from that quarter, I could hear the 
song of the sailors as they pulled upon the ropes. 
After all I had listened to upon the way, I looked at 
that ship with an extreme abhorrence; and from 
the bottom of my heart I pitied all poor souls that 
were condemned to sail in her. 

We had all three pulled up on the brow of the 
hill; and now I marched across the road and ad- 
dressed my uncle. “I think it right to tell you, 
sir,” says I, “there’s nothing that will bring me on 
board that Covenant .” 

He seemed to waken from a dream. “Eh?” 
he said. “What’s that?” 

I told him over again. 

“Well, well,” he said, “we’ll have to please ye, 
I suppose. But what are we standing here for? 
It’s perishing cold, and if I’m no mistaken they’re 
busking the Covenant for sea,” 


CHAPTER VI 

WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY 

As soon as we came to the inn, Ransome led us up 
the stair to a small room, with a bed in it, and heated 
like an oven by a great fire of coal. At a table hard 
by the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat 
writing. In spite of the heat of the room, he wore 
a thick sea-jacket, buttoned to the neck, and a tall 
hairy cap drawn down over his ears; yet I never saw 
any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look 
cooler, or more studious and self-possessed, than 
this ship captain. 

He got to his feet at once, and coming forward, 
offered his large hand to Ebenezer. “I am proud 
to see you, Mr. Balfour,” said he, in a fine deep 
voice, “and glad that ye are here in time. The 
wind’s fair, and the tide upon the turn; we’ll see 
the old coalbucket burning on the Isle of May before 
to-night. ” 

“Captain Hoseason,” returned my uncle, “you 
keep your room unco’ hot. ” 

“ It’s a habit I have, Mr. Balfour,” said the skipper. 
“I’m a cold-rife man by my nature; I have a cold 
blood, sir. There’s neither fur, nor flannel — no, 
sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call the 
temperature. Sir, it’s the same with most men 
that have been carbonadoed, as they call it, in the 
tropic seas.” 


5i 


5 2 


KIDNAPPED 


“Well, well, captain,” replied my uncle, “we 
must all be the way we’re made.” 

But it chanced that this fancy of the captain’s 
had a great share in my misfortune. For though 
I had promised myself not to let my kinsman out of 
sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of 
the sea, and so sickened by the closeness of the room, 
that when he told me to “run downstairs and play 
myself awhile,” I was fool enough to take him at 
his word. 

Away I went, therefore, leaving the two men 
sitting down to a bottle and a great mass of papers; 
and crossing the road in front of the inn, walked 
down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter 
only little wavelets, not much bigger than I had 
seen upon a lake, beat* upon the shore. But the 
weeds were new to me — some green, some brown 
and long, and some with little bladders that crackled 
between my fingers. Even so far up the firth, the 
smell of the sea water was exceedingly salt and 
stirring, the Covenant , besides, was beginning to shake 
out her sails, which hung upon the yards in clusters; 
and the spirit of all that I beheld put me in thoughts 
of far voyages and foreign places. 

I looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff — big, 
brown fellows, some in shirts, some with jackets, 
some with colored handkerchiefs about their throats, 
one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, 
two or three with knotty bludgeons, and all with 
their case-knives. I passed the time of day with 
one that looked less desperate than his fellows, and 
asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they 
would get under way as soon as the ebb set, and 
expressed his gladness to be out of a port where 
there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such 


KIDNAPPED 


53 


horrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from 
him. 

This threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the 
least wicked of that gang, and who soon came out 
of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of punch. 
I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither 
he nor I was of age for such indulgences. “But a 
glass of ale you may have, and welcome,” said I. 
He moped and mowed at me, and called me names; 
but he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and pres- 
ently we were set down at a table in the front room 
of the inn, and both eating and drinking with a 
good appetite. 

Here it occurred to me that, as the landlord was 
a man of that country, I might do well to make a 
friend of him. I offered him a share, as was much 
the custom in these days; but he was far too great a 
man to sit with such poor customers as Ransome 
and myself, and he was leaving the room, when I 
I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Ran- 
keillor. 

“Hoot, ay,” says he, “and a very honest man. 
And, O, by-the-bye,” says he, “was it you that 
came in with Ebenezer?” And when I had told 
him yes, “Ye’ll be no friend of his?” he asked, 
meaning, in the Scotch way, that I would be no 
relative. 

I told him no, none. 

“I thought not,” said he; “and yet ye have a 
kind of gliff* of Mr. Alexander. ” 

I said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the 
country. 

“ Nae doubt, ” said the landlord. “ He’s a wicked 
auld man, and there’s many would like to see him 

♦Look. 


54 


KIDNAPPED 


grinning in a tow;* Jennet Clouston and mony 
mair that he has harried out of house and hame. 
And yet he was ance a fine young fellow, too. And 
that was before the soughf gaed abroad about 
Mr. Alexander; that was like the death of him.” 

“And what was it?” I asked. 

“Ou, just that he had killed him,” said the land- 
lord. “Did ye never hear that?” 

“And what would he kill him for?” said I. 

“And what for, but just to get the place,” said he. 

“The place?” said I. “The Shows?” 

“Nae other place that I ken,” said he. 

“Ay, man?” said I. “Is that so? Was my — 
w r as Alexander the eldest son?” 

“ ’Deed was he,” said the landlord. “What else 
would he have killed him for?” 

And with that he went away, as he had been im- 
patient to do from the beginning. 

Of course, I had guessed it a long while ago; but 
it is one thing to guess, another to know; and I sat 
stunned with my good fortune, and could scarce 
grow to believe that the same poor lad who had 
trudged in the dust from Ettrick Forest not two 
days ago, was now one of the rich of the earth, and 
had a house and broad lands, and if he but knew 
how to ride, might mount his horse to-morrow. 
All these pleasant things, and a thousand others, 
crowded into my mind, as I sat staring before me 
out of the inn window, and paying no heed to what 
I saw; only I remember that my eye lighted on 
Captain Hoseason down on the pier among his sea- 
men, and speaking with some authority. And 
presently he came marching back toward the house, 

* Rope. 

t Report. 


KIDNAPPED 


55 


with no mark of a sailor’s clumsiness, but carrying 
his fine, tall figure with a manly bearing, and still 
with the same sober, grave expression on his face. 
I wondered if it was possible that Ransome’s stories 
could be true, and half disbelieved them; they 
fitted so ill with the man’s looks. But indeed, he 
was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite 
so bad as Ransome did ; for, in fact, he was two men, 
and left the better one behind as soon as he set foot 
on board his vessel. 

The next thing, I heard my uncle calling me, and 
found the pair in the road together. It was the 
captain who addressed me, and that with an air 
(very flattering to a young lad) of grave equality. 

“Sir,” said he, “Mr. Balfour tells me great things 
of you; and for my own part, I like your looks. 
I wish I was for longer here, that we might make 
the better friends; but we’ll make the most of what 
we have. Ye shall come on board my brig for half- 
an-hour, till the ebb sets, and drink a bowl with me. ” 

Now, I longed to see the inside of a ship more than 
words can tell; but I was not going to put myself in 
jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I had an 
appointment with a, lawyer. 

“Ay, ay,” said he, “he passed me word of that. 
But, ye see, the boat’ll set ye ashore at the town pier, 
and that’s but a penny stonecast from Rankeillor’s 
house.” And here he suddenly leaned down and 
whispered in my ear: “Take care of the old tod;* 
he means mischief. Come aboard till I can get a 
word with ye. ” And then, passing his arm through 
mine, he continued aloud, as he set off jtoward his 
boat: “But come, what can I bring ye from the 
Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour’s can com- 

* Fox. 


56 


KIDNAPPED 


mand. A roll of tobacco? Indian featherwork? 
a skin of a wild beast ? a stone pipe ? the mocking- 
bird that mews for all the world like a cat? the 
cardinal bird that is as red as blood ? — take your 
pick and say your pleasure. ” 

By this time we were at the boat-side, and he was 
handing me in. I did not dream of hanging back; I 
thought (the poor fool!) that I had found a good 
friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. 
As soon as we were all set in our places, the boat was 
thrust off from the pier and began to move over the 
waters; and what with my pleasure in this new 
movement and my surprise at our low position, and 
the appearance of the shores, and the growing bigness 
of the brig as we drew near to it, I could hardly 
understand what the captain said, and must have 
answered him at random. 

As soon as we were alongside (where I sat fairly 
gaping at the ship’s height, the strong humming of 
the tide against its sides, and the pleasant cries of 
the seamen at their work) Hoseason, declaring that 
he and I must be the first on board, ordered a tackle 
to be sent down from the main-yard. In this I was 
whipped into the air and set down again on the deck, 
where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and 
instantly slipped back his arm under mine. There 
I stood some while, a little dizzy with the unsteadi- 
ness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid, and 
yet vastly pleased with these strange sights; the 
captain meanwhile pointing out the strangest, and 
telling me their names and uses. 

“But where is my uncle?” said I, suddenly. 

“Ay,” said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, 
“that’s the point.” 

I felt I was lost. With all my strength, I plucked 


KIDNAPPED 


57 


myself clear of him and ran to the bulwarks. Sure „ 
enough, there was the boat pulling for the town, 
with my uncle sitting in the stern. I gave a piercing 
cry — “Help, help! Murder!” — so that both 
sides of the anchorage rang with it, and my uncle 
turned round where he was sitting, and showed me 
a face full of cruelty and terror. 

It was the last I saw. Already strong hands had 
been plucking me back from the ship’s side; and 
now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me; I saw a 
great flash of fire, and fell senseless. 


CHAPTER VII 

I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG u COVENANT ” OF DYSART 

I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound 
hand and foot, and deafened by many unfamiliar 
noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring of 
water as of a huge mill-dam; the thrashing of heavy 
sprays, the thundering of the sails, and the shrill 
cries of the seamen. The whole world now heaved 
giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and 
so sick and hurt was I in body and my mind so much 
confounded, that it took me a long while, chasing 
my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again 
by a fresh stab of pain, to realize that I must belying 
somewhere bound in the belly of that unlucky ship, 
and that the wind must have strengthened to a gale. 
With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon 
me a blackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my 
own folly, and a passion of anger at my uncle, that 
once more bereft me of my senses. 

When I returned again to life, the same uproar, 
the same confused and violent movements, shook 
and deafened me; and presently, to my other pains 
and distresses, there was added the sickness of an 
unused landsman on the sea. In that time of my 
adventurous youth, I suffered many hardships; but 
none that was so crushing to my mind and body, 
or lit by so few hopes, as these first hours on board 
the brig. 

I heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had 
58 


KIDNAPPED 


59 


proved too strong for us, and we were firing signals 
of distress. The thought of deliverance, even by 
death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it 
was no such matter; but (as I was afterward told) a 
common habit of the captain’s which I here set down 
to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier 
sides. We were then passing, it appeared, within 
some miles of Dysart, where the brig was built, 
and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain’s mother, 
had come some years before to live; and whether 
outward or inward bound, the Covenant was never 
suffered to go by that place by day without a gun 
fired and colors shown. 

I had no measure of time; day and night were 
alike in that ill-smelling cavern of the ship’s bowels, 
where I lay; and the misery of my situation drew 
out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay 
waiting to hear the ship split upon some rock, or to 
feel her reel head foremost into the depths of the sea, 
I have not the means of computation. But sleep at 
length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow. 

I was wakened by the light of a hand-lantern 
shining in my face. A small man of about thirty, 
with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair, stood looking 
down at me. 

“ Well, ” said he, “how goes it ? ” 

I answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my 
pulse and temples, and set himself to wash and dress 
the wound upon my scalp. 

“Ay,” said he, “a sore dunt.* What, man? 
Cheer up! The world’s no done; you’ve made a 
bad start of it, but you’ll make a better. Have you 
had any meat?” 

I said I could not look at it; and thereupon he gave 

* Stroke. 


6o 


KIDNAPPED 


me some brandy and water in a tin pannikin, and left 
me once more to myself. 

The next time he came to see me, I was lying be- 
twixt sleep and waking, my eyes wide open in the 
darkness, the sickness quite departed, but succeeded 
by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost 
worse to bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and 
the cords that bound me seemed to be of fire. The 
smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to have be- 
come a part of me; and during the long interval 
since his last visit, I had suffered tortures of fear, 
now from the scurrying of the ship’s rats that some- 
times pattered on my very face, and now from the 
dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever. 

The glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, 
shone in like the heaven’s sunlight; and though it 
only showed me the strong, dark beams of the ship 
that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for 
gladness. The man with the green eyes was the 
first to descend the ladder, and I noticed that he 
came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the 
captain. Neither said a word; but the first set to 
and examined me, and dressed my wound as before, 
while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd, 
black look. 

“Now, sir, you see for yourself,” said the first: 
“a high fever, no appetite, no light, no meat: you 
see for yourself what that means.” 

“I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach,” said the captain. 

“Give me leave, sir,” said Riach; “you’ve a good 
head upon your shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue 
to ask with ; but I will leave you no manner of excuse: 
I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the 
forecastle.” 

“What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to 


KIDNAPPED 


61 


nobody but yourseP,” returned the captain; “but I 
can tell ye that which is to be. Here he is; here he 
shall bide.” 

“Admitting that you have been paid in a propor- 
tion,” said the other, “I will crave leave humbly to 
say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too much, 
to be the second officer of this old tub; and you ken 
very well if I do my very best to earn it. But I was 
paid for nothing more. ” 

“ If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, 
Mr. Riach, I would have no complaint to make of 
ye,” returned the skipper; “and instead of asking 
riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your 
breath to cool your porridge. We’ll be required on 
deck,” he added, in a sharper note, and set one foot 
upon the ladder. 

But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve. 

“Admitting that you have been paid to do a mur- 
der ” he began. 

Hoseason turned upon him with a flash. 

“What’s that?” he cried. “What kind of talk is 
that?” 

“It seems it is the talk that you can understand,” 
said Mr. Riach, looking him steadily in the face. 

“Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises,” 
replied the captain. “In all that time, ye should 
have learned to know me: I’m a stiff man, and a 
dour man; but for what ye say now — fy, fy! — it 
comes from a bad heart and a black conscience. 
If ye say the lad will die ” 

“Ay, will he!” said Mr. Riach. 

“Well, sir, is not that enough?” said Hoseason. 
“Flit him where you please!” 

Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and 
I, who had lain silent throughout this strange con- 


62 


KIDNAPPED 


versation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him and bow 
as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of 
derision. Even in my then state of sickness, I 
perceived two things: that the mate was touched 
with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk 
or sober) he was like to prove a valuable friend. 

Five minutes afterward my bonds were cut, I was 
hoisted on a man’s back, carried up to the fore- 
castle, and laid in a bunk on some sea-blankets; 
where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses. 

It was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again 
upon the daylight, and to find myself in the society of 
men. The forecastle was a roomy place enough, set 
all about with berths, in which the men of the watch 
below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. 
The day being calm and the wind fair, the scuttle 
was open, and not only the good daylight, but from 
time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of 
sunlight shone in, and dazzled and delighted me. 
I had no sooner moved, moreover, than one of the 
men brought me a drink of something healing which 
Mr. Riach had prepared, and bade me lie still and I 
should soon be well again. There were no bones 
broken, he exclaimed: “A clour* on the head was 
naething. Man,” said he, “it was me that gave 
it ye!” 

Here I lay for the space of many days a close 
prisoner, and not only got my health again, but came 
to know my companions. They were a rough lot 
indeed, as sailors mostly are; being men rooted out 
of all the kindly parts of life, and condemned to toss 
together on the rough seas, with masters no less 
cruel. There were some among them that had 
sailed with the pirates and seen things it would be a 

* Blow. 


KIDNAPPED 


63 


shame even to speak of; some were men that had 
run from the king’s ships, and went with a halter 
round their necks, of which they made no secret; 
and all, as the saying goes, were “at a word and a 
blow,” with their best friends. Yet I had not been 
many days shut up with them before I began to be 
ashamed of my first judgment, when I had drawn 
away from them at the Ferry pier, as though they 
had been unclean beasts. No class of man is al- 
together bad; but each has its own faults and 
virtues; and these shipmates of mine were no ex- 
ception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough ; 
and bad, I suppose; but they had many virtues. 
They were kind when it occurred to them, simple 
even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, 
and had some glimmerings of honesty. 

There was one man of maybe forty, that would sit 
on my berthside for hours, and tell me of his wife and 
child. He was a fisher that had lost his boat, and 
thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, 
it is years ago now; but I have never forgotten him. 
His wife (who was “young by him,” as he often told 
me) waited in vain to see her man return; he would 
never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor 
yet keep the bairn when she was sick. Indeed, 
many of these poor fellows (as the event proved) 
were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and can- 
nibal fish received them ; and it is a thankless business 
to speak ill of the dead. 

Among other good deeds that they did, they 
returned my money which had been shared among 
them; and though it was about a third short, I was 
very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in 
the land I was going to. The ship was bound for the 
Carolinas; and you must not suppose that I was 


64 


KIDNAPPED 


going to that place merely as an exile. The trade 
was even then much depressed; since that, and 
with the rebellion of the colonies and the formation 
of the United States, it has, of course, come to an 
end; but in these days of my youth, white men were 
still sold into slavery on the plantations, and that 
was the destiny to which my wicked uncle had 
condemned me. 

The cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first 
heard of these atrocities) came in at times from the 
round-house, where he berthed and served, now 
nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving 
against the cruelty of Mr. Shuan. It made my 
heart bleed; but the men had a great respect for the 
chief mate, who was, as they said, “the only seaman 
of the whole jing-bang, and none such a bad man 
when he was sober.” Indeed, I found there was a 
strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. 
Riach was sullen, unkind, and harsh when he 
was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not hurt a fly 
except when he was drinking. I asked about the 
captain; but I was told drink made no difference 
upon that man of iron. 

I did my best in the small time allowed me to make 
something like a man, or rather I should say some- 
thing like a boy, of the poor creature, Ransome. 
But his mind was scarce truly human. He could 
remember nothing of the time before he came to sea; 
only that his father had made clocks, and had a 
starling in the parlor, which could whistle “The 
North Countrie”; all else had been blotted out in 
these years of hardship and cruelties. He had a 
strange notion of the dry land, picked up from 
sailor’s stories: that it was a place where lads were 
put to some kind of slavery called a trade, and where 


KIDNAPPED 


65 


apprentices were continually lashed and clapped 
into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every 
second person a decoy, and every third house a place 
in which seamen would be drugged and murdered. 
To be sure, I could tell him how kindly I had my- 
self been used upon that dry land he was so much 
afraid of, and how well fed and carefully taught both 
by my friends and my parents: and if he had been 
recently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to 
run away; but if he was in his usual crackbrain 
humor or (still more) if he had had a glass of 
spirits in the round-house, he would deride the 
notion. 

It 'was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who 
gave the boy drink; and it was, doubtless, kindly 
meant; but besides that it was ruin to his health; 
it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy, 
unfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and 
talking he knew not what. Some of the men laughed, 
but not all; others would grow as black as thunder 
(thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their 
own children) and bid him stop that nonsense, 
and think what he was doing. As for me, I felt 
ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still 
comes about me in my dreams. 

All this time, you should know, the Covenant was 
meeting continual head-winds and tumbling up and 
down against head-seas, so that the scuttle was 
almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted 
only by a swinging lantern on a beam. There was 
constant labor for all hands; the sails had to be 
made and shortened every hour; the strain told on 
the men’s temper; there was a growl of quarreling 
all day long from berth to berth; and as I was never 
allowed to set my foot on deck, you can picture to 


66 


KIDNAPPED 


yourself how weary of my life I grew to be, and how i 
impatient for a change. 

And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I I 
must first tell of a conversation I had with Mr. Riach 
which put a little heart in me to bear my troubles. 
Getting him in a favorable stage of drink (for indeed 
he never looked near me when he was sober) I 
pledged him to secrecy, and told him my whole story. 

He declared it was like a ballad; that he would 
do his best to help me; that I should have paper, 
pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr. Campbell 
and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had 
told the truth, ten to one he would be able (with 
their help) to pull me through and set me in my 
rights. 

“And in the meantime,” says he, “keep your heart 
up. You’re not the only one, I’ll tell you that. 
There’s many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas that 
should be mounting his horse at his own door at 
home; many and many! And life is all a variorum, 
at the best. Look at me: I’m a laird’s son and 
more than half a doctor, and here I am, man- Jack 
to Hoseason.'” 

I thought it would be civil to ask him for his 
story. 

He whistled loud. 

“Never had one,” said he. “I liked fun, that’s 
all. ” And he skipped out of the forecastle. 




CHAPTER VIII 

THE ROUND-HOUSE 

One night, about twelve o’clock, a man of Mr. 
Riach’s watch (which was on deck) came down for 
his jacket; and instantly there began to go a whisper 
about the forecastle that “Shuan had done for him 
at last. ” There was no need of a name; we all 
knew who was meant; but we had scarce time to get 
the idea rightly in our heads; far less to speak of it, 
when the scuttle was again flung open, and Captain 
Hoseason came down the ladder. He looked sharply 
round the bunks in the tossing light of the lantern; 
and then, walking straight up to me, he addressed 
me, to my surprise, in tones of kindness. 

“My man, ” said he, “we want you to serve in the 
round-house. You and Ransome are to change 
berths. Run away aft with ye. ” 

Even as he spoke, two seamen appeared in the 
scuttle, carrying Ransome in their arms; and the 
ship at that moment giving a great sheer into the sea, 
and the lantern swinging, the light fell direct on the 
boy’s face. It was as white as wax, and had a look 
upon it like a dreadful smile. The blood in me ran 
cold, and I drew in my breath as if I had been struck. 

“Run away aft; run away aft with ye!” cried 
Hoseason. 

And at that I brushed by the sailors and the boy 
(who neither spoke nor moved) and ran up the 
ladder on deck. 


67 


68 


KIDNAPPED 


The brig was sheering swiftly and giddily through 
a long, cresting swell. She was on the starboard 
tack, and on the left hand, under the arched foot of 
the foresail, I could see the sunset still quite bright. 
This, at such an hour of the night, surprised me 
greatly; but I was too ignorant to draw the true 
conclusion — that we were going north-about round 
Scotland, and were now on the high sea between the 
Orkney and the Shetland Islands, having avoided 
the dangerous currents of the Pentland Firth. For 
my part, who had been so long shut in the dark and 
knew nothing of head-winds, I thought we might be 
half-way or more across the Atlantic. And indeed 
(beyond thatT wondered a little at the lateness of the 
sunset light) I gave no heed to it, and pushed on 
across the decks, running between the seas, catching 
at ropes, and only saved from going overboard by 
one of the hands on deck, who had been always kind 
to me. 

The round-house, for which I was bound and 
where I was now to sleep and serve, stood some six 
feet above the decks, and considering the size of the 
brig, was of good dimensions. Inside were a fixed 
table and bench, and two berths, one for the captain 
and the other for the two mates, turn and turn about. 
It was all fitted with lockers from top to bottom, so 
as to stow away the officers’ belongings and a part of 
the ship’s stores; there was a second store-room 
underneath, which you entered by a hatchway in the 
middle of the deck; indeed, all the best of the meat 
and drink and the whole of the powder were collected 
in this place; and all the firearms, except the two 
pieces of brass ordnance, were set in a rack in the 
aftermost wall of the round-house. The most of the 
cutlasses were in another place. 


KIDNAPPED 


69 


A small window with a shutter on each side, and a 
skylight in the roof, gave it light by day; and after 
dark, there was a lamp always burning. It was 
burning when I entered, not brightly, but enough 
to show Mr. Shuan sitting at the table, with the 
brandy bottle and a tin pannikin in front of him. 
He was a tall man, strongly made and very black; 
and he stared before him on the table like one stupid. 

He took no notice of my coming in; nor did he 
move when the captain followed and leant on the 
berth beside me, looking darkly at the mate. I 
stood in great fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons 
for it; but something told me I need not be afraid of 
him just then; and I whispered in his ear, “How 
is he?” He shook his head like one that does not 
know and does not wish to think, and his face was 
very stern. 

Presently Mr. Riach came in. He gave the cap- 
tain a glance that meant the boy was dead as plain 
as speaking, and took his place like the rest of us; 
so that we all three stood without a word, staring 
down at Mr. Shuan, and Mr. Shuan (on his side) 
sat without a word, looking hard upon the table. 

All of a sudden he put out his hand to take the 
bottle; and at that Mr. Riach started forward and 
caught it away from him, rather by surprise than 
violence, crying out, with an oath, that there had 
been too much of this work altogether, and that a 
judgment would fall upon the ship. And as he spoke 
(the weather sliding-doors standing open) he tossed 
the bottle into the sea. 

Mr. Shuan was on his feet in a trice; he still looked 
dazed, but he meant murder, ay, and would have 
done it, for the second time that night, had not the 
captain stepped in between him and his victim. 


7o 


KIDNAPPED 


“Sit down!” roars the captain. “Ye sort and 
swine, do ye know what ye’ve done? Ye’ve mur- 
dered the boy!” 

Mr. Shuan seemed to understand; for he sat 
down again and put up his hand to his brow. 

“Well,” he said, “he brought me a dirty pan- 
nikin!” 

At that word, the captain and I and Mr. Riach all 
looked at each other for a second with a kind of 
frightened look; and then Hoseason walked up to 
his chief officer, took him by the shoulder, led him 
across to his bunk, and bade him lie down and go to 
sleep, as you might speak to a bad child. The 
murderer cried a little, but he took off his sea-boots 
and obeyed. 

“Ah!” cried Mr. Riach, with a dreadful voice, “ye 
should have interfered longe syne. It’s too late 
now. ” 

“Mr. Riach,” said the captain, “this night’s work 
must never be kennt in Dysart. The boy went 
overboard, sir; that’s what the story is; and I would 
give five pounds out of my pocket if it was true!” 

He turned to the table. “What made ye throw 
the good bottle away?” he added. “There was nae 
sense in that, sir. Here, David, draw me another. 
They’re in the bottom locker; ” and he tossed me a 
key. “Ye’ll need a glass yourself, sir,” he added, 
to Riach. “Yon was an ugly thing to see. ” 

So the pair sat down and hob-a- nobbed; and 
while they did so, the murderer, who had been lying 
and whimpering in his berth, raised himself upon his 
elbow and looked at them and at me. 

That was the first night of my new duties; and in 
the course of the next day I had got well into the run 
of them. I had to serve at the meals, which the 


KIDNAPPED 


7i 


captain took at regular hours, sitting down with the 
officer who was off duty; all the day through I would 
be running with a dram to one or other of my three 
masters; and at night I slept on a blanket thrown 
on the deck boards at the aftermost end of the round- 
house, and right in the draught of the two doors. 
It was a hard and a cold bed; rtor was I suffered to 
sleep without interruption; for some one would be 
always coming in from deck to get a dram, and when 
a fresh watch was to be set, two and sometimes 
all three would sit down and brew a bowl together. 
How they kept their health, I know not, any more 
than how I kept my own. 

And yet in other ways it was an easy service. 
There was no cloth to lay; the meals were either of 
oatmeal porridge or salt junk, except twice a week, 
when there was duff: and though I was clumsy 
enough and (not being firm on my sea-legs) some- 
times fell with what I was bringing them, both Mr. 
Riach and the captain were singularly patient. I 
could not but fancy they were making up lee-way, 
with their consciences, and that they would scarce 
have been so good with me, if they had not been 
worse with Ransome. 

As for Mr. Shuan, the drink, or his crime, or the 
two together, had certainly troubled his mind. I 
cannot say I ever saw him in his proper wits. He 
never grew used to my being there, stared at me 
continually (sometimes, I could have thought, with 
terror) and more than once drew back from my 
hand when I was serving him. I was pretty sure 
from the first that he had no clear mind of what he 
had done, and on my second day in the round-house 
I had the proof of it. We were alone, and he had 
been staring at me a long time, when, all at once, up 


72 KIDNAPPED 

he got, as pale as death, and came close up to me, 
to my great terror. But I had no cause to be afraid 
of him. 

“You were not here before?” he asked. 

“No, sir,” said I. 

“There was another boy?” he asked again; and 
when I had answered him, “Ah!” says he, “I thought 
that,” and went and sat down, without another 
word, except to call for brandy. 

You may think it strange, but for all the horror I 
had, I was still sorry for him. He was a married 
man, with a wife in Leith; but whether or no he had 
a family, I have now forgotten; I hope not. 

Altogether it was no very hard life for the time it 
lasted, which (as you are to hear) was not long. I 
was as well fed as the best of them; even their pickles, 
which were the great dainty, I was allowed my 
share of; and had I liked, I might have been drunk 
from morning to night, like Mr. Shuan. I had 
company, too, and good company of its sort. Mr. 
Riach, who had been to the college, spoke to me like 
a friend when he was not sulking, and told me many 
curious things, and some that were informing; and 
even the captain, though he kept me at the stick’s 
end the most part of the time, would sometimes 
unbuckle a bit, and tell me of the fine countries he 
had visited. 

The shadow of poor Ransome, to be sure, lay on all 
four of us, and on me and Mr. Shuan, in particular, 
most heavily. And then I had another trouble of 
my own. Here I was, doing dirty work for three 
men that I looked down upon, and one of whom, at 
least, should have hung upon a gallows; that was 
for the present; and as for the future, I could only 
see myself slaving alongside of negroes in the to- 


KIDNAPPED 


73 


bacco fields. Mr. Riach, perhaps from caution, 
would never suffer me to say another word about my 
story; the captain, whom I tried to approach, re- 
buffed me like a dog and would not hear a word; and 
as the days came and went, my heart sank lower, and 
lower, tiil I was even glad of the work, which kept me 
from thinking. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD 

More than a week went by, in which the ill-luck 
that had hitherto pursued the Covenant upon this 
voyage grew yet more strongly marked. Some days 
she made a little way ; others, she was driven actually 
back. At last we were beaten so far to the south 
that we tossed and tacked to and fro the whole of the 
ninth day, within sight of Cape Wrath and the wild, 
rocky coast on either hand of it. There followed 
on that a council of the officers, and some decision 
which I did not rightly understand, seeing only the 
result: that we had made a fair wind of a foul one and 
were running south. 

The tenth afternoon, there was a falling swell and 
a thick, wet, white fog that hid one end of the brig 
from the other. All afternoon, when I went on deck, 
I saw men and officers listening hard over the bul- 
warks — “for breakers,” they said; and though I 
did not so much as understand the word, I felt 
danger in the air and was excited. 

Maybe about ten at night, I was serving Mr. 
Riach and the captain at their supper, when the 
ship struck something with a great sound, and we 
heard voices singing out. My two masters leaped 
to their feet. 

“She’s struck,” said Mr. Riach. 

“No, sir,” said the captain. “We’ve only run a 
boat down. ” 

74 


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75 


And they hurried out. 

The captain was in the right of it. We had run 
down a boat in the fog, and she had parted in the 
midst and gone to the bottom with all her crew, but 
one. This man (as I heard afterward) had been 
sitting in the stern as a passenger, while the rest were 
on the benches rowing. At the moment of the blow, 
the stern had been thrown into the air, and the man 
(having his hands free, and for all he was encumbered 
with a frieze overcoat that came below his knees) 
had leaped up and caught hold of the brig’s bow- 
sprit. It showed he had luck and much agility and 
unusual strength, that he should have thus saved 
himself from such a pass. And yet, when the cap- 
tain brought him into the round-house, and I set 
eyes on him for the first time, he looked as cool as I 
did. 

He was smallish in stature, but well set and 
nimble as a goat; his face was of a good open ex- 
pression, but sunburnt very dark, and heavily freckled 
and pitted with the smallpox ; his eyes were unusu- 
ally light and had a kind of dancing madness in 
them, that was both engaging and alarming; and 
when he took off his great-coat, he laid a pair of 
fine silver-mounted pistols on the table, and I saw 
that he was belted with a great sword. His manners, 
besides, were elegant, and he pledged the captain 
handsomely. Altogether I thought of him, at the 
first sight, that here was a man I would rather call 
my friend than my enemy. 

The captain, too, was taking his observations, but 
rather of the man’s clothes than his person. And 
to be sure, as soon as he had taken off the great-coat, 
he showed forth mighty fine for the round-house of 
a merchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red 


?6 


KIDNAPPED 


waistcoat, breeches of black plush, and a blue coat 
with silver buttons and handsome silver lace: costly 
clothes, though somewhat spoiled with the fog and 
being slept in. 

“I’m vexed, sir, about the boat,” says the captain. 

“There are some pretty men gone to the bottom,” 
said the stranger, “that I would rather see on the dry 
land again than half a score of boats. 

“Friends of yours?” said Hoseason. 

“You have none such friends in your country,” 
was the reply. “They would have died for me like 
dogs. ” 

“Well, sir,” said the captain, still watching him, 
“there are more men in the world than boats to put 
them in. ” 

“And that’s true, too,” cried the other; “and ye 
seem to be a gentleman of great penetration. ” 

“I have been in France, sir,” says the captain; 
so that it was plain he meant more by the words than 
showed upon the face of them. 

“Well, sir,” says the other; “and so has many a 
pretty man, for the matter of that. ” 

“ No doubt, sir, ” says the captain; “ and fine coats.” 

“Oho!” says the stranger, “is that how the wind 
sets?” And he laid his hand quickly on his pistols. 

“Don’t be hasty,” said the captain. “Don’t do 
a mischief, before ye see the need for it. Ye’ve a 
French soldier’s coat upon your back and a Scotch 
tongue in your head, to be sure; but so has many an 
honest fellow in these days, and I daresay none the 
worse of it.” 

“So?” said the gentleman in the fine coat: “are 
ye of the honest party?” (meaning, Was he a Ja- 
cobite? for each side, in those sort of civil broils, 
takes the name of honesty for its own.) 


KIDNAPPED 


77 


“Why, sir,” replied the captain, “I am a true- 
blue Protestant, and I thank God for it.” (It was 
the first word of any religion I had ever heard from 
him, but I learnt afterward he was a great church- 
goer while on shore.) “But, for all that,” says he, 
“I can be sorry to see another man with his back 
to the wall.” 

“Can ye so, indeed?” asks the Jacobite. “Well, 
sir, to be quite plain with ye, I am one of those 
honest gentlemen that were in trouble about the 
years forty-five and six; and) to be still quite plain 
with ye) if I get into the hands of any of the red- 
coated gentry, it’s like it would go hard with me. 
Now, sir, I was for France; and there was a French 
ship cruising here to pick me up; but she gave us 
the go-by in the fog — as I wish from the heart that 
ye had done yoursel’ ! And the best that I can say 
is this: If ye can set me ashore where I was going, 
I have that upon me will reward you highly for your 
trouble. ” 

“In France?” says the captain. “No, sir; that 
I cannot do. But where ye come from — we might 
talk of that.” 

And then, unhappily, he observed me standing in 
my corner, and packed me off to the galley to get 
supper for the gentleman. I lost no time, ^promise 
you; and when I came back into the round-house, 
I found the gentleman had taken a money-belt from 
about his waist, and poured out a guinea or two upon 
the table. The captain was looking at the guineas, 
and then at the belt, and then at the gentleman’s 
face; and I thought he seemed excited. 

“Half of it,” he cried, “and I’m your man!” 

The other swept back the guineas into the belt, and 
put it on again under his waistcoat. “ I have told ye, 


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sir,” said he, “that not one doit of it belongs to me. 
It belongs to my chieftain” — and here he touched 
his hat — “and while I would be but a silly mes- 
senger to grudge some of it that the rest might come 
safe, I should show myself a hound indeed if I bought 
my own carcass any too dear. Thirty guineas on 
the seaside, or sixty if ye set me on the Linnhe Loch. 
Take it, if ye will; if not, ye can do your worst. ” 

“Ay,” said Hoseason. “And if I give ye over to 
the soldiers?” 

“Ye would make a fool’s bargain,” said the other. 
“My chief, let me tell you, sir, is forfeited, like every 
honest man in Scotland. His estate is in the hands 
of the man they call King George; and it is his 
officers that collect the rents, or try to collect them. 
But for the honor of Scotland, the poor tenant bodies 
take a thought upon their chief lying in exile; and 
this money is a part of that very rent for which King 
George is looking. Now, sir, ye seem to me to be a 
man that understands things: bring this money, 
within the reach of Government, and how much of 
it’ll come to you?” 

“Little enough, to be sure,” said Hoseason; and. 
then, “If they knew,” he added dryly. “But I 
think if I was to try, that I could hold my tongue; 
about it.” 

“Ah, but I’ll begowk* ye there!” cried the gentle- 
man. “Play me false, and I’ll play you cunning. 
If a hand’s laid upon me, they shall ken what money 
it is.” 

“Well,” returned the captain, “what must be 
must. Sixty guineas, and done. Here’s my hand 
upon it.” * > 

“And here’s mine,” said the other. 

♦ Befool. 


KIDNAPPED 


79 


And thereupon the captain went out (rather 
hurriedly, I thought), and left me alone in the round 
house with the stranger. , 

At that period (so soon after the forty-five) there 
were many exiled gentlemen coming back at the 
peril of their lives, either to see their friends or to 
collect a little money; and as for the Highland 
chiefs that had been forfeited, it was a common 
matter of talk how their tenants would stint them- 
selves to send them money, and their clansmen 
outface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gantlet 
of our great navy to carry it across. All this I had, 
of course, heard tell of; and now I had a man under 
my eyes whose life was forfeit on all these counts and 
upon one more; for he was not only a rebel and a 
smuggler of rents, but had taken service with King 
Louis of France. And as if all this were not enough, 
he had a belt full of golden guineas round his loins. 
Whatever my opinions, I could not look on such a 
man without a lively interest. 

“And so you’re a Jacobite?” said I, as I set meat 
before him. 

“Ay,” said he, beginning to eat. “And you, by 
your long face, should be a Whig ?”* 

“Betwixt and between,” said I, not to annoy him; 
for indeed I was as good a Whig as Mr. Campbell 
could make me. 

“And that’s naething, ” said he. “But I’m saying, 
Mr. Betwixt-and-Between,” he added, “this bottle 
of yours is dry; and it’s hard if I’m to pay sixty 
guineas and be grudged a dram upon the back of it. ” 

“I’ll go and ask for the key,” said I, and stepped 
on deck. 

* Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were loyal 
to King George. 


8o 


KIDNAPPED 


The fog was as close as ever, but the swell almost 
down. They had laid the brig to, not knowing 
precisely where they were, and the wind (what little 
there was of it) not serving well for their true course. 
Some of the hands were still hearkening for breakers, 
but the captain and the two officers were in the waist 
with their heads together. It struck me, I don’t 
know why, that they were after no good; and the 
first word I heard, as I drew softly near, more than 
confirmed me. 

It was Mr. Riach, crying out as if upon a sudden 
thought: 

“ Couldn’t we wile him out of the round-house ? ” 

“He’s better where he is,” returned Hoseason; 
“he hasn’t room to use his sword. ” 

“Well, that’s true,” said Riach; “but he’s hard 
to come at.” 

“Hut!” said Hoseason. “We can get the man in 
talk, one upon each side, and pin him by the two 
arms; or if that’ll not hold, sir, we can make a run 
by both the doors and get him under hand before 
he has the time to draw. ” 

At this hearing, I was seized with both fear and 
anger at these treacherous, greedy, bloody men that 
I sailed with. My first mind was to run away; my 
second was bolder. 

“Captain,” said I, “the gentleman is seeking a 
dram, and the bottle’s out. Will you give me the 
key?” 

They all started and turned about. 

“Why, here’s our chance to get the firearms!” 
Riach cried; and then to me: “Hark ye, David,” 
he said, “do ye ken where the pistols are?” 

“Ay, ay,” put in Hoseason. “David kens; 
David’s a good lad. Ye see, David my man, yon 


KIDNAPPED 


81 


wild Hielandman is a danger to the ship, besides 
being a rank foe to King George, God bless him!” 

I hadnever beensobe-Daviedsincel cameon board; 
but I said yes, as if all I heard were quite natural. 

“The trouble is,” resumed the captain, “that all 
our firelocks, great and little, are in the round-house 
under this man’s nose; likewise the powder. Now, 
if I, or one of the officers, was to go in and take them, 
he would fall to thinking. But a lad like you, David, 
might snap up a horn and a pistol or two without 
remark. And if ye can do it cleverly, I’ll bear it in 
mind when it’ll be good for you to have friends; 
and that’s when we come to Carolina.” 

Here Mr. Riach whispered him a little. 

“Very right, sir,” said the captain; and then to 
myself: “And see here, David, yon man has a beltful 
of gold, and I give you my word that you shall have 
your fingers in it. ” 

I told him I would do as he wished, though indeed 
I had scarce breath to speak with ; and upon that he 
gave me the key of the spirit locker, and I began to 
go slowly back to the round-house. What was I to 
do? They were dogs and thieves; they had stolen 
me from my own country; they had killed poor 
Ransome; and was I to hold the candle to another 
murder? But then, upon the other hand, there was 
the fear of death very plain before me; for what 
could a boy and a man, if they were as brave as 
lions, against a whole ship’s company ? 

I was still arguing it back and forth, and getting 
no great clearness, when I came into the round-house 
and saw the Jacobite eating his supper under the 
lamp; and at that my mind was made up all in a 
moment. I have no credit by it; it was by no choice 
of mine, but as if by compulsion, that I walked 


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right up to the table and put my hand on his 
shoulder. 

“Do ye want to be killed?” said I. 

He sprang to his feet, and looked a question at me 
as clear as if he had spoken. 

“O!” cried I, “they’re all murderers here; it’s a 
ship full of them! They’ve murdered a boy already. 
Now it’s you.” 

“Ay, ay,” said he; “but they haven’t got me yet. ” 

And then looking at me curiously, “Will ye stand 
with me?” 

“That will I!” said I. “I am no thief, nor yet 
murderer. I’ll stand by you. ” 

“Why, then,” said he, “what’s your name?” 

“David Balfour,” said I; and then thinking 
that a man with so fine a coat must like fine people, 
I added for the first time, “of Shaws.” 

It never occurred to him to doubt me, for a High- 
lander is used to see great gentlefolk in great poverty ; 
but as he had no estate of his own, my words nettled a 
very childish vanity he had. 

“My name is Stewart,” he said, drawing himself 
up. “Alan Breck, they call me. A king’s name is 
good enough for me, though I bear it plain and have 
the name of no farm-midden to clap to the hind-end 
of it.” 

And having administered this rebuke, as though 
it were something of a chief importance, he turned 
to examine our defenses. 

The round-house was built very strong, to support 
the breachings of the seas. Of its five apertures, 
only the skylight and the two doors were large enough 
for the passage of a man. The doors, besides, could 
be drawn close; they were of stout oak, and ran in 
grooves, and were fitted with hooks to keep them 


KIDNAPPED 


83 


either shut or open, as the need arose. The one that 
was already shut, I secured in this fashion; but when 
I was proceeding to slide to the other, Alan stopped 
me. 

“ David,” said he — “for I cannae bring to mind 
the name of your landed estate, and so will make so 
bold as call you David — that door, being open, is 
the best part of my defenses. ” 

“It would be yet better shut,” says I. 

“Not so, David,” says he. “Ye see, I have but 
one face; but so long as that door is open and my 
face to it, the best part of my enemies will be in front 
of me, where I would aye wish to find them. ” 

Then he gave me from the rack a cutlass (of 
which there were a few besides the firearms), choos- 
ing it with great care, shaking his head and saying 
he had never in all his life seen poorer weapons; 
and next he set me down to the table with a powder- 
horn, a bag of bullets, and all the pistols, which he 
bade me charge. 

“And that will be better work, let me tell you,” 
said he, “for a gentleman of decent birth, than scrap- 
ing plates and raxing* drams to a wheen tarry 
sailors. ” 

Thereupon he stood up in the midst with his face 
to the door, and drawing his great sword, made 
trial of the room he had to wield it in. 

“I must strick to the point,” he said, shaking his 
head; “and that’s a pity, too. It doesn’t set my 
genius, which is all for the upper guard. And now, ” 
said he, “do you keep on charging the pistols, and 
give heed to me.” 

I told him I would listen closely. My chest was 
tight, my mouth dry, the light dark to my eyes; the 

* Reaching. 


8 4 


KIDNAPPED 


thought of the numbers that were soon to leap in upon 
us kept my heart in a flutter; and the sea, which I 
heard washing round the brig, and where I thought 
my dead body would be cast ere morning, ran in my 
mind strangely. 

“First of all,” said he, “how many are against 
us?” 

I reckoned them up; and such was the hurry of 
my mind, I had to cast the numbers twice. “Fif- 
teen,” said I. 

Alan whistled. “Well,” said he, “that can’t be 
cured. And now follow me. It is my part to keep 
this door, where I look for the main battle. In 
that, ye have no hand. And mind and dinnae fire 
to this side unless they get me down; for I would 
rather have ten foes in front of me than one friend 
like you cracking pistols at my back. ” 

I told him indeed I was no great shot. 

“And that’s very bravely said,” he cried, in a 
great admiration of my candor. “There’s many a 
pretty gentleman that wouldnae dare to say it. ” 

“But then, sir,” said I, “there is the door behind 
you, which they may perhaps break in.” 

“Ay,”’ said he, “and that is a part of your work. 
No sooner the pistols charged, then ye must climb 
up into yon bed where ye’re handy at the window; 
and if they lift hand against the door, ye’re to shoot. 
But that’s not all. Let’s make a bit of a soldier of ye, 
David. What else have ye to guard?” 

“There’s the skylight,” said I. “But indeed, 
Mr. Stewart, I would need to have eyes upon both 
sides to keep the two of them; for when my face is 
at the one, my back is to the other. ” 

“And that’s very true,” said Alan. “But have 
ye no ears to your head ? ” 


KIDNAPPED 85 

“ To be sure ! ’ ’ cried I . “I must hear the bursting 
of the glass!” 

“Ye have some rudiments of sense,” said Alan 
grimly. 


CHAPTER X 

THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE 

But now our time of truce was come to an end. 
Those on deck had waited for my coming till they 
grew impatient; and scarce had Alan spoken, 
when the captain showed face in the open door. 

“Stand!” cried Alan, and pointed his sword at 
him. 

The captain stood, indeed; but he neither winced 
nor drew back a foot. 

“A naked sword?” says he. “This is a strange 
return for hospitality.” 

“Do you see me?” said Alan. “I am come of 
kings; I bear a king’s name. My badge is the 
oak. Do ye see my sword? It has slashed the 
heads off mair Whigamores than you have toes 
upon your feet. Call up your vermin to your back, 
sir, and fall on! The sooner the clash begins, the 
sooner ye’ll taste this steel throughout your vitals.” 

The captain said nothing to Alan, but he looked 
over at me with an ugly look. “David,” said he, 
“I’ll mind this”; and the sound of his voice went 
through me with a jar. 

Next moment he was gone. 

“And now,” said Alan, “let your hand keep 
your head, for the grip is coming.” 

Alan drew a dirk, which he held in his left hand 
in case they should run in under his sword. I, 
on my part, clambered up into the berth with an 
86 


KIDNAPPED 


87 


armful of pistols and something of a heavy heart, 
and set open the window where I was to watch. 
It was a small part of the deck that I could over- 
look, but enough for our purpose. The sea had 
gone down, and the wind was steady and kept the 
sails quiet; so that there was a great stillness in 
the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of 
muttering voices. A little after, and there came a 
clash of steel upon the deck, by which I knew they 
were dealing out the cutlasses and one had been let 
fall; and after that silence again. 

I do not know if I was what you call afraid; but 
my heart beat like a bird’s, both quick and little; 
and there was a dimness came before my eyes which 
I continually rubbed away, and which continually 
returned. As for hope, I had none; but only a 
darkness of despair and a sort of anger against all 
the world that made me long to sell my life as dear 
as I was able. I tried to pray, I remember, but 
that same hurry of my mind, like a man running, 
would not suffer me to think upon the words; and 
my chief wish was to have the thing begin and be 
done with it. 

It came all of a, sudden when it did, with a rush 
of feet and a roar, and then a shout from Alan, 
and a sound of blows and someone crying out as 
if hurt. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw 
Mr. Shuan in the doorway, crossing blades with 
Alan. 

“That’s him that killed the boy!” I cried. 

“Look to your window!” said Alan; and as 
I turned back to my place, I saw him pass his sword 
through the mate’s body. 

It was none too soon for me to look to my own 
part; for my head was scarce back at the window 


88 


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before five men, carrying a spare yard for a batter- 
ing-ram, ran past me and took post to drive the door 
in. I had never fired with a pistol in my life, and 
not often with a gun; far less against a fellow- 
creature. But it was now or never; and just as 
they swung the yard, I cried out, “Take that!” 
and shot into their midst. 

I must have hit one of them, for he sang out and 
gave back a step, and the rest stopped as if a little 
disconcerted. Before they had time to recover, 
I sent another ball over their heads; and at my 
third shot (which went as wide as the second) the 
whole party threw down the yard and ran for it. 

Then I looked around again into the deck- 
house. The whole place was full of the smoke of 
my own firing, just as my ears seemed to be burst 
with the noise of the shots. But there was Alan, 
standing as before; only now his sword was run- 
ning blood to the hilt, and himself so swelled with 
triumph and fallen into so fine an attitude, that 
he looked to be invincible. Right before him on 
the floor was Mr. Shuan, on his hands and knees; 
the blood was pouring from his mouth, and he was 
sinking slowly lower, with a terrible, white face; 
and just as I looked, some of those from behind 
caught hold of him by the heels and dragged him 
bodily out of the round-house. I believe he died 
as they were doing it. 

“There’s one of your Whigs for ye!” cried Alan; 
and then turning to me, he asked if I had done much 
execution. 

I told him I had winged one, and thought it was 
the captain. 

“And I’ve settled two,” says he. ‘‘No, there’s 
not enough blood let; they’ll be back again. To 


KIDNAPPED 89 

your watch, David. This was but a dram before 
meat.” 

I settled back to my place, recharging the three 
pistols I had fired, and keeping watch with both 
eye and ear. 

Our enemies were disputing not far off upon the 
deck, and that so loudly that I could hear a word 
or two above the washing of the seas. 

“It was Shuan bauchled * it,” I heard one say. 

And another answered him with a “Wheesht, 
man! He’s paid the piper.” 

After that the voices fell again into the same 
muttering as before. Only now, one person spoke 
most of the time, as though laying down a plan, 
and first one and then another answered him briefly 
like men taking orders. By this, I made sure they 
were coming on again, and told Alan. 

“It’s what we have to pray for,” said he. “Un- 
less we can give them a good distaste of us, and done 
with it, there’ll be nae sleep for either you or me. 
But this time, mind, they’ll be in earnest.” 

By this my pistols were ready, and there was 
nothing to do but listen and wait. While the brush 
lasted, I had not the time to think if I was frighted; 
but now, when all was still again, my mind ran upon 
nothing else. The thought of the sharp swords 
and the cold steel was strong in me; and presently, 
when I began to hear stealthy steps and a brushing 
of men’s clothes against the round-house wall, and 
knew they were taking their places in the dark, 
I could have found it in my mind to cry out aloud. 

All this was upon Alan’s side; and I had begun 
to think my share of the fight was at an end, when I 
heard someone drop softly on the roof above me. 

* Bungled. 


90 


KIDNAPPED 


Then there came a single call on the sea-pipe, and 
that was the signal. A knot of them made one rush 
of it, cutlass in hand, against the door; and at the 
same moment, the glass of the skylight was dashed 
in a thousand pieces, and a man leaped through 
and landed on the floor. Before he got to his feet, 
I had clapped a pistol to his back, and might have 
shot him, too; only at the touch of him (and 
him alive) my whole flesh misgave me, and I 
could no more pull the trigger than I could have 
flown. 

He had dropped his cutlass as he jumped, and 
when he felt the pistol, whipped straight round and 
laid hold of me, roaring out an oath; and at that 
my courage came back again, or I grew so much 
afraid as came to the same thing; for I gave a 
shriek and shot him in the midst of the body. He 
gave the most horrible, ugly groan and fell to the 
floor. The foot of a second fellow, whose legs 
were dangling through the skylight, struck me at 
the same time upon the head; and at that I snatched 
another pistol and shot this one through the thigh, 
so that he slipped through and tumbled in a lump 
on his companion’s body. There was no talk 
of missing, any mare than there was time to aim; 
I clapped the muzzle to the very place and fired. 

I might have stood and stared at them for long, 
but I heard Alan shout as if for help, and that 
brought me to my senses. 

He had kept the door so long; but one of the sea- 
men, while he was engaged with others, had run in 
under his guard and caught him about the body. 
Alan was dirking him with his left hand, but the 
fellow clung like a leech. Another had broken in 
and had his cutlass raised. The door was thronged 


KIDNAPPED 


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with their faces. I thought we were lost, and 
catching up my cutlass, fell on them in flank. 

But I had not time to be of help. The wrestler 
dropped at last; and Alan, leaping back to get his 
distance, ran upon the others like a .bull, roaring as 
he went. They broke before him like water, turn- 
ing, and running, and falling one against another 
in their haste. The sword in his hands flashed like 
quicksilver into the huddle of our fleeing enemies; 
and at every flash there came the scream of a man 
hurt. I was still thinking we were lost, when 
lo! they were all gone, and Alan was driving them 
along the deck as a sheepdog chases sheep. 

Yet he was no sooner out than he was back 
again, being as cautious as he was brave; and mean- 
while the seamen continued running and crying out 
as if he was still behind them; and we heard them 
tumble one upon another into the forecastle, and 
clap-to the hatch upon the top. 

The round-house was like a shambles; three 
were dead inside, another lay in his death agony 
across the threshold; and there were Alan and I 
victorious and unhurt. 

He came up to me with open arms. “Come to 
my arms!” he cried, and embraced and kissed me 
hard upon both cheeks. “David,” said he, “I 
love you like a brother. And O, man,” he cried 
in a kind of ecstasy, “am I no a bonny fighter?” 

Thereupon he turned to the four enemies, passed 
his sword clean through each of them, and tumbled 
them out-of-doors. As he did so, he kept humming 
and singing and whistling to himself, like a man 
trying to recall an air; only what he was trying, 
was to make one. All the while, the flush was in 
his face, and his eyes were as bright as a five-year- 


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old child’s with a new toy. And presently he sat 
down upon the table, sword in hand; the air that 
he was making all the time began to run a little 
clearer, and then clearer still; and then out he burst 
with a great voice into a Gaelic song. 

I have translated it here, not in verse (of which 
I have no skill) but at least in the king’s English. 
He sang it often afterward, and the thing became 
popular; so that I have heard it, and had it ex- 
plained to me, many’s the time: 


This is the song of the sword of Alan: 

The smith made it, 

The fire set it; 

Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck. 

Their eyes were many and bright, 

Swift were they to behold, 

Many the hands they guided: 

The sword was alone. 

The dun deer troop over the hill, 

They are many, the hill is one; 

The dun deer vanish, 

The hill remains. 

Come to me from the hills of heather, 

Come from the isles of the sea. 

O far-beholding eagles, 

Here is your meat. 

Now this song which he made (both words and 
music) in the hour of our victory, is something less 
than just to me, who stood beside him in the tussle. 
Mr. Shuan and five more were either killed out- 
right or thoroughly disabled; but of these, two 
fell by my hand, the two that came by the skylight. 
Four more were hurt, and of that number, one 


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and he not the least important) got his hurt from 
me. So that, altogether, I did my fair share both 
of the killing and the wounding, and might have 
claimed a place in Alan’s verses. But poets (as a 
very wise man once told me) have to think upon 
their rhymes; and in good prose talk, Alan always 
did me more than justice. 

In the meanwhile, I was innocent of any wrong 
being done me. For not only I knew no word of 
the Gaelic; but what with the long suspense of the 
waiting, and the scurry and strain of our two spirits 
of fighting, and more than all, the horror I had of 
some of my own share in it, the thing was no sooner 
over than I was glad to stagger to a seat. There 
was that tightness on my chest that I could hardly 
breathe; the thought of the two men I had shot 
sat upon me like a nightmare; and all upon a sud- 
den, and before I had a guess of what was coming, 
I began to sob and cry like any child. 

Alan clapped my shoulder, and said I was a brave 
lad and wanted nothing but sleep. 

“I’ll take the first watch,” said he. “Ye’ve done 
well by me, Da^d^fjrst and last; and I wouldn’t 
lose you for all Appin — no, nor for Breadalbane.” 

So he made up my bed on the floor, and took the 
first spell, pistol in hand and sword on knee; three 
hours by the captain’s watch upon the wall. Then 
he roused me up, and I took my turn of three hours; 
before the end of which it was broad day, and a 
very quiet morning, with a smooth, rolling sea that 
tossed the ship and made the blood run to and fro on 
the round-house floor, and a heavy rain that drummed 
upon the roof. All my watch there was nothing 
stirring; and by the banging of the helm, I knew 
they had even no one at the tiller. Indeed (as I 


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learned afterward) they were so many of them 
hurt or dead, and the rest in so ill a temper that 
Mr. Riach and the captain had to take turn and 
turn (like Alan and me), or the brig might have 
gone ashore and nobody the wiser. It was a mercy 
the night had fallen so still, for the wind had gone 
down as soon as the rain began. Even as it was, 
I judged by the wailing of a great number of gulls 
that went crying and fishing round the ship, that 
she must have drifted pretta jjjiear the coast of one 
of the islands of the Hebrides; and at last, looking 
out of the door of the round-house, I saw the great 
stone hills of Skye on the right hand, and, a little 
more astern, the strange Isle of Rum. 


CHAPTER XI 

THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER 

Alan and I sat down to breakfast about six of 
the clock. The floor was covered with broken glass 
and in a horrid mess of blood, which took away my 
hunger. In all other ways we were in a situation 
not only agreeable but merry; having ousted the 
officers from their own cabin, and having at com- 
mand all the drink in the ship — both wine and 
spirits — and all the dainty part of what was eatable, 
such as the pickles and the fine sort of biscuit. 
This, of itself, was enough to set us in good humor; 
but the richest part of it was this, that the two 
thirstiest men that ever came out of Scotland (Mr. 
Shuan being dead) were now shut in the fore part 
of the ship and condemned to what they hated most 
— cold water. 

“And depend upon it,” Alan said, “we shall hear 
more of theme ere long. Ye may keep a man from 
the fighting, but never from his bottle.” 

We made good company for each other. Alan, 
indeed, expressed himself most lovingly; and tak- 
ing a knife from the table, cut me off one of the sil- 
ver buttons from his coat. 

“I had them,” says he, “from my father, Duncan 
Stewart; and now give ye one of them to be a keep- 
sake for last night’s work. And wherever ye go 
and show that button, the friends of Alan Breck will 
come around you.” 


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KIDNAPPED 


He said this as if he had been Charlemagne and 
commanded armies; and indeed, much as I admired 
his courage, I was always in danger of smiling at 
his vanity; in danger, I say, for had I not kept my 
countenance, I would be afraid to think what a 
quarrel might have followed. 

As soon as we were through with our meal, he 
rummaged in the captain’s locker till he found a 
clothes brush; and then taking off his coat, began 
to visit his suit and brush away the stains, with such 
care and labor as I supposed to have been only usual 
with women. To be sure, he had no other; and 
besides (as he said) it belonged to a king and so be- 
hooved to be royally looked after. 

For all that, when I saw what care he took to 
pluck out the threads where the button had been 
cut away, I put a higher value on his gift. 

He was still so engaged, when we were hailed by 
Mr. Riach from the deck, asking for a parley; and 
I, climbing through the skylight and sitting on the 
edge of it, pistol in hand and with a bold front, 
though inwardly in fear- of broken glass, hailed him 
back again and bade him speak out. He came to 
the edge of the round-house, and stood on a coil of 
rope, so that his chin was on a level with the roof; 
and we looked at each other awhile in silence. Mr. 
Riach, as I do not think he had been very forward 
in the battle, so he had got off with nothing worse 
than a blow upon the cheek; but he looked out 
of heart and very weary, having been all night 
afoot, either standing watch or doctoring the 
wounded. 

“This^ is a bad job,” said he at last, shaking his 
head. 

“It was none of our choosing,” said I. 


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‘‘The captain,” says he, “would like to speak 
with your friend. They might speak at the win- 
dow.” 

“And how do we know what treachery he means ? ” 
cried I. 

“He means none, David,” returned Mr. Riach; 
“and if" he did, I’ll tell ye the honest truth, we could- 
nae get the men to follow.” 

“Is that so?” said I. 

“I’ll tell ye more than that,” said he. “It’s not 
only the men; it’s me. I’m frich’ened, Davie.” 
And he smiled across at me. “No,’ he continued, 
“what we want is to be shut of him.”. 

Thereupon I consulted with Alan, and the parley 
was agreed to and parole given upon either side; 
but this was not the whole of Mr. Riach ’s business, 
and he now begged me for a dram with such instancy 
and such reminders of his former kindness, that at 
last I handed him a pannikin with about a gill of 
brandy. He drank a part, and then carried the 
rest down upon the deck, to share it (I suppose) 
with his superior. 

A little after, the captain came (as was agreed) 
to one of the windows, and stood there in the rain, 
with his arm in a sling, and looking stern and pale, 
and so old that my heart smote me for having fired 
upon him. 

Alan at once held a pistol in his face. 

“Put that thing up!” said the captain. “Have 
I not passed my word, sir ? or do you seek to affront 
me?” 

“Captain,” said Alan, “I doubt your word is a 
breakable. Last night ye haggled and argled- 
bargled like an apple- wife; and then passed me 
your word, and gave me your hand to back it; and 


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ye ken very well what was the upshot. Be damned 
to your word!” says he. 

“Well, well, sir,” said the captain, “ye’ll get little 
good by swearing.” (And truly that was a fault 
of which the captain was quite free.) “But we have 
other things to speak,” he continued, bitterly. 
“Ye’ve made a sore hash of my brig; I haven’t 
hands enough left to work her; and my first officer 
(whom I could ill spare) has got your sword through- 
out his vitals, and passed without speech. There 
is nothing left me, sir, but to put back into the 
port of Glasgow after hands; and there (by your 
leave) ye will find them that are better able to talk 
to you.” 

“Ay?” said Alan; “and faith, I’ll have a talk 
with them mysel’! Unless there’s naebody speaks 
English in that town, I have a bonny tale for them. 
Fifteen tarry sailors upon the one side, and a man and 
a halfling boy upon the other! O, man, it’s peetiful!” 

Hoseason flushed red. 

“No,” continued Alan, “that’ll no do. Ye’ll 
just have to set me ashore as we agreed.” 

“Ay,” said Hoseason, “but my first officer is 
dead — ye ken best how. There’s none of the rest 
of us acquaint with this coast, sir; and it’s one very 
dangerous to ships.” 

“I give ye your choice,” says Alan. “Set me on 
dry ground in Appin, or Ardgour, or in Morven, or 
Arisaig, or Morar; or, in brief, where ye please, 
within thirty miles of my own country; except in a 
country of the Campbells’. That’s a broad target. 
If ye miss that, ye must be as feckless at the sailor- 
ing as I have found ye at the fighting. Why, my 
poor country people in their lit cobles * pass from 

* Coble: a small boat used in fishing. 


KIDNAPPED 


99 


island to island in all weathers, ay, and by night 
too, for the matter of that.” 

“A coble’s not a ship, sir,” said the captain. 
“It has nae draught of water.” 

“Well, then, to Glasgow if ye list!” says Alan. 
“We’ll have the laugh of ye at the least.” 

“My mind runs little upon laughing,” said the 
captain. “But all this will cost money, sir.” 

“Well, sir,” says Alan, “I am nae weathercock. 
Thirty guineas, if ye land me on the seaside; and 
sixty, if ye put me in the Linnhe Loch.” 

“But see, sir, where we lie, we are but a few hours’ 
sail from Ardnamurchan,” said Hoseason. “Give 
me sixty, and I’ll set ye there.” 

“And I’m to wear my brogues and run jeopardy 
of the red-coats to please you?” cried Alan. “No 
sir, if ye want sixty guineas, earn them, and set me 
in my own country.” 

“It’s to risk the brig, sir,” said the captain, “and 
your own lives along with her.” 

“Take it or want it,” says Alan. 

“Could ye pilot us at all?” asked the captain, 
who was frowning to himself. 

“Well, it’s doubtful,” said Alan. “I’m more of 
a fighting man (as ye have seen for yoursel’) than a 
sailorman. But I have been often enough picked up 
and set down upon this coast, and should ken some- 
thing of the lie of it.” 

The captain shook his head, still frowning. 

“ If I had lost less money on this unchancy cruise,” 
says he, “I would see you in a rope’s-end before I 
risked my brig, sir. But be it as ye will. As soon 
as I get a slant of wind (and there’s some coming, 
or I’m the more mistaken) I’ll put it in hand. But 
there’s one thing more. We may meet in with a 


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king’s ship and she may lay us aboard, sir, with no 
blame of mine; they keep the cruisers thick upon 
this coast, ye ken who for. Now, sir, if that was to 
befall, ye might leave the money.” 

“Captain,” says Alan, “if ye see a pennant, it 
shall be your part to run away. And now, as I hear 
you’re a little short of brandy in the fore part, I’ll 
offer ye a change; a bottle of brandy against two 
buckets of water.” 

That was the last clause of the treaty, and was 
duly executed on both sides; so that Alan and I 
could at last wash out the round-house and be quit 
of the memorials of those whom we had slain, and 
the captain and Mr. Riach could be happy again in 
their own way, the name of which was drink* 


CHAPTER XII 

I HEAR OF THE RED FOX 

Before we had done cleaning out the round-house, 
a breeze sprang up from a little to the east of north. 
This blew off the rain and brought out the sun. 

And here I must explain; and the reader would 
do well to look at a map. On the day when the fog 
fell and we ran down Alan’s boat, we had been 
running through the Little Minch. At dawn after 
the battle, we lay becalmed to the east of the Isle of 
Canna or between that and Isle Eriska in the chain 
of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the 
Linnhe Loch, the straight course was through the 
narrows of the Sound of Mull. But the captain had 
no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so deep 
among the islands; and the wind serving well, he 
preferred to go by west of Tiree and come up under 
the southern coast of the great Isle of Mull. 

All day the breeze held in the same point, and 
rather freshened than died down; and toward after- 
noon, a swell began to set in from round the outer 
Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner 
isles, was to the west of south, so that at first we had 
this swell upon our beam, and were much rolled 
about. But after nightfall, when we had turned 
the end of Tiree and began to head more to the east, 
the sea came right astern. 

Meanwhile, the early part of the day, before the 

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swell came up, was very pleasant, sailing, as we 
were, in a bright sunshine and with many mountain- 
ous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in 
the round-house with the doors open on each side 
(the wind being straight astern) and smoked a pipe 
or two of the captain’s fine tobacco. It was at this 
time we heard each other’s stories, which were the 
more important to me, as I gained some knowledge 
of that wild Highland country, on which I was so 
soon to land. In those days, so close on the back 
of the great rebellion, it was needful a man should 
know what he was doing when he went upon the 
heather. 

It was I that showed the example, telling him all 
my misfortune; which he heard with great good 
nature. Only, when I came to mention that good 
friend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan 
fired up and cried out that he hated all that were of 
that name. 

“ Why,” said I, “he is a man you should be proud 
to give your hand to. ” 

“I know nothing I would help a Campbell to,” 
says he, “unless it was a leaden bullet. I would 
hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay 
dying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber 
window for a shot at one. ” 

“Why, Alan,” I cried, “what ails ye at the Camp- 
bells?” 

“Well,” says he, “ye ken very well that I am an 
Appin Stewart, and the Campbells have long 
harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got 
lands of us by treachery — but never with the sword,” 
he cried loudly, and with the word brought down 
his fist upon the table. But I paid the less attention 
to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who 


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have the under hand. “There’s more than that,” 
he continued, “and all in the same story: lying 
words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the 
show of what’s legal over all, to make a man the 
more angry.” 

“You that are so wasteful of your buttons,” said 
I, “ I can hardly think you would be a good judge of 
business. ” 

“Ah!” says he, falling again to smiling, “I got 
my wastefulness from the same man I got the buttons 
from; and that was my poor father, Ducan Stewart, 
grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his 
kindred; and the best swordsman in the Hielands, 
David, and that is the same as to say, in all the world, 
I should ken, for it was him that taught me. He 
was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; 
and like other gentleman privates, had a gillie at his 
back to carry his firelock for him on the march. 
Well, the king, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland 
swordsmanship; and my father and three more were 
chosen out and sent to London town, to let him see 
it at the best. So they were had into the palace and 
showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a 
stretch, before King George and Queen Caroline, and 
the Butcher Cumberland, and many more of whom I 
havenae mind. And when they were through, the 
king (for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them 
fair and gave each man three guineas in his hand. 
Now, as they were going out of the palace, they had 
a porter’s lodge to go by; and it came in on my 
father, as he was perhaps the first private Hieland 
gentleman that had ever gone by that door, it was 
right he should give the poor porter a proper notion 
of their quality. So he gives the king’s three guineas 
into the man’s hand, as if it was his common custom; 


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the three others that came behind him did the same; 
and there they were on the street, never a penny the 
better for their pains. Some say it was one that was 
the first to fee the king’s porter, and some say it was 
another; but the truth of it is, that it was Duncan 
Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword 
or pistol. And that was the father that I had, God 
rest him.” 

“I think he was not the man to leave you rich,” 
said I. 

“And that’s true,” said Alan. “He left me my 
breeks to cover me, and little besides. And that 
was how I came to enlist, which was a black spot 
upon my character at the best of times, and would 
still be a sore job for me if I fell among the red- 
coats. ” 

“What?” cried I, “were you in the English army?” 

“That was I,” said Alan. “But I deserted to 
the right side at Preston Pans — and that’s some 
comfort. ” 

I could scarcely share this view: holding desertion 
under arms for an unpardonable fault in honor. 
But for all I was so young, I was wiser than say my 
thought. “Dear, dear,” says I, “the punishment 
is death.” 

“Ay,” said he, “if they got hands on me, it would 
be a short shrift and a lang tow for Alan ! But I have 
the king of France’s commission in my pocket, which 
would aye be some protection.” 

“I misdoubt it much,” said I. 

“I have doubts mysel’,” said Alan, dryly. 

“And, good Heaven, man,” cried I, “you that are 
a condemned rebel, and a deserter, and a man of the 
French king’s — what tempts ye back into this 
country? It’s a braving of Providence.” 


KIDNAPPED 


io5 

“Tut,” says Alan, “I have been back every year 
since forty-six!” 

“And what brings ye, man?” cried I. 

“ Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country,” 
said he. “France is a braw place, nae doubt; but 
I weary for the heather and the deer. And then I 
have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a 
few lads to serve the king of France: recruits, ye see; 
and that’s aye a little money. But the heart of the 
matter is the business of my chief, Ardshiel.”'"— 

“I thought they called your chief Appin,” said I. 

“Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan,” said 
he, which scarcely cleared my mind. “Ye see, 
David, he that was all his life so great a man, and 
come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is 
now brought down to live in French town like a poor 
and private person. He that had four hundred 
swords at his whistle I have seen, with these eyes of 
mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking 
it home in a kale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a 
disgrace to us of his family and clan. There are the 
bairns forby, the children and the hope of Appin, 
that must be learned their letters and how to hold a 
sword, in that far country. Now, the tenants of 
Appin have to pay a rent to King George; but their 
hearts are stanch, they are true to their chief; and 
what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a 
threat or two, the poor folk scrape up a second rent 
for Ardshiel. Well, David, I’m the hand that 
carries it. ” And he struck the belt about his body, 
so that the guineas rang. 

“Do they pay both?” cried I. 

“Ay, David, both,” says he. 

“What? two rents?” I repeated. 

“Ay, David, ” said he. “I told a different tale to 


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yon captain man; but this is the truth of it. And 
it’s wonderful to me how little pressure is needed. 
But that’s the handiwork of my good kinsman and 
my father’s friend. James of the Glens; James 
Stewart, that is: Ardshiel’s half-brother. He it is 
that gets the money in, and does the management. ” 

This was the first time I heard the name of that 
James Stewart, who was afterward so famous at 
the time of his hanging. But I took little heed at the 
moment, for all my mind was occupied with the 
generosity of these poor Highlanders. 

“I call it noble,” I cried. “I’m a Whig, or little 
better; but I call it noble.” 

“Ay,” said he, “ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentle- 
man; and that’s what does it. Now, if ye were one 
of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash your 
teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox.” 

. And at that name his teeth shut to- 
gether, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many 
a grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan’s when 
he had named the Red Fox. 

“And who is the Red Fox?” I asked* daunted, 
but still curious. 

“Who is he?” cried Alan. “Well, and I’ll tell 
you that. When the men of the clans were broken 
at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the 
horses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the 
north, Ardshiel had to flee like a poor deer upon the 
mountains — he and his lady and his bairns. A 
sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and 
while he still lay in the heather, the English rogues, 
that couldnae come at his life, were striking at his 
rights. They stripped him of his powers; they 
stripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons 
from the hands of his clansmen, that had borne 


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107 

arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very clothes 
off their backs — so that it’s now a sin to wear a 
tartan plaid, and a man may be cast into jail if he 
has but a kilt about his legs. One thing they could- 
nae kill. That was the love the clansmen bora their 
chief. These guineas are the proof of it. And now, 
in there steps a man, a Campbell, red-headed Colin 
of Glenure ” 

“ Is that him you call the Red Fox ? ” said I. 

“Will ye bring me his brush ?” cries Alan, fiercely. 
“Ah, that’s the man. In he steps, and gets papers 
from King George, to be so-called king’s factor on 
the lands of Appin. And at first he sings small, 
and is hail-fellow-well-met with Sheamus — that’s 
James of the Glens, my chieftain’s agent. But by 
and by, that came to his ears that I have just told 
you; how the poor commons of Appin, the farmers 
and the crofters and the boumen, were wringing 
their very plaids to get a second rent, and send it 
over-seas for Ardshiel and his poor bairns. What 
was it ye called it, when I told ye ? ” 

“I called it noble, Alan,” said I. 

“And you little better than a common Whig!” 
cries Alan. “But when it came to Colin Roy, the 
black Campbell blood in him ran wild. He sat 
gnashing his teeth at the wine table. What! should 
a Stewart get a bite of bread, and him not be able to 
prevent it! Ah! Red Fox, if ever I hold you at a 
gun’s end, the Lord have pity upon ye!” (Alan 
stopped to swallow down his anger.) “Well, 
David, what does he do ? He declares all the farms 
to let. And thinks he, in his black heart, I’ll soon 
get other tenants that’ll overbid these Stewarts, and 
Maccolls, and Macrobs (for these are all names in 
my clan, David), ‘and then,’ thinks he, ‘Ardshiel, 


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will have to hold his bonnet on a French road- 
side.’” 

“Well,” saidft, “what followed?” 

Alan laid down his pipe, which he had long since 
suffered to go out, and set his two hands upon his 
knees. 

“Ay,” said he, “ye’ll never guess that! For 
these same Stewarts, and Maccolls, and Macrobs 
(that had two rents to pay, one to King George by 
stark force, and one to Ardshiel by natural kindness) 
offered him a better price than any Campbell in all 
broad Scotland; and far he sent seeking them — as 
far as to the sides of Clyde and the cross of Edin- 
burgh — seeking, and fleeching, and begging them 
to come, where there was a Stewart to be starved 
and a red-headed hound of a Campbell to be pleas- 
ured!” 

“Well, Alan,” said I, “that is a strange story, and 
a fine one' too. And Whig as I may be, I am glad 
the man was beaten.” 

“Him beaten?” echoed Alan. “It’s little ye ken 
of Campbells and less of the Red Fox. Him beaten ? 
No: nor will be, till his blood’s on the hillside! But 
if the day comes, David man, that I can find time 
and leisure for a bit of hunting, there grows not 
enough heather in all Scotland to hide him from my 
vengeance!” 

“Man Alan,” said I, “ye are neither very wise 
nor very Christian to blow off so many words of 
anger. They will do the man ye call the Fox no 
harm, and yourself no good. Tell me your tale 
plainly out. What did he next?” 

“And that’s a good observe, David,” said Alan. 
“Troth and indeed, they will do him no harm; the 
more’s the pity! And barring that about Chris- 


KIDNAPPED 


109 


tianity (of which my opinion is quite otherwise, or I 
would be nae Christian) I am much of your mind. ” 
“Opinion here or opinion there,” said I, “it’s' a 
kent thing that Christianity forbids revenge. ” 

“Ah,” said he, “it’s well seen it was a Campbell 
taught ye! It would be a convenient world for them 
and their sort, if there was no such a thing as a lad 
and a gun behind a heather bush ! But that’s noth- 
ing to the point. That is what he did. ” 

“Ay,” said I, “come to that.” 

“Well, David,” said he, “since he couldnae be rid 
of the royal commons by fair means, he swore he 
would be rid of them by foul. Ardshiel was to starve : 
that was the thing he aimed at. And since them 
that fed him in his exile wouldnae be bought out 
right or wrong, he would drive them out. There- 
fore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats 
to stand at his back. And the kindly folk of that 
country must all pack and tramp, every father’s son 
out of his father’s house, and out of the place where 
he was bred and fed, and played when he was a 
callant. And who are to succeed them ? Bareleggit 
beggars! King George is to whistle for his rents; he 
maun dow with less; he can spread his butter 
thinner: what cares Red Colin? If he can hurt 
Ardshiel, he has his wish; if he can pluck the meat 
from my chieftain’s table, and the bit toys out of his 
children’s hands, he will gang hame singing to Glen- 
ure!” 

“Let me have a word,” said I. “Be sure, if they 
take less rents, be sure Government has a finger in 
the pie. It’s not this Campbell’s fault, man — it’s 
his orders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, 
what better would ye be ? There would be another 
factor in his shoes, as fast as spur can drive. ” 


no 


KIDNAPPED 


“Ye’re a good lad in a fight,” said Alan; “but 
man! ye have Whig blood in ye!” 

He spoke kindly enough, but there was so much 
anger under his contempt that I thought it was wise 
to change the conversation. I expressed my won- 
der how, with the Highlands covered with troops 
and guarded like a city in a siege, a man in his sit- 
uation could come and go without arrest. 

“It’s easier than ye would think,” said Alan. 
“A bare hillside (ye see) is like all one road; if 
there’s a sentry at once place ye just go by another. 
And then heather’s a great help. And everywhere 
there are friends’ houses and friends’ byres and 
haystacks. And besides, when folk talk of a country 
covered with troops, it’s but a kind of a by-word 
at the best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his 
boot-soles. I have fished a water with a sentry on 
the other side of the brae, and killed a fine trout; 
and I have sat in a heather bush within six feet of 
another, and learned a real bonny tune from his 
whistling. This was it, ” said he, and whistled me 
the air. 

“And then, besides,” he continued, “it’s no sae 
bad now as it was in forty-six. The Hielands are 
what they call pacified. Small wonder, with never 
a gun or a sword left from Cantyre to Cape Wrath, 
but what tenty folk have hidden in their thatch! 
But what I would like to ken, David, is just how 
long? Not long, ye would think, with men like 
Ardshiel in exile and men like the Red Fox sitting 
birling the wine and Oppressing the poor at home. 
But it’s a kittle thing to decide what folk’ll bear, and 
what they will not. Or why would Red Colin be 
riding his horse all over my poor country of Appin, 
and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in him ? ” 


KIDNAPPED 


hi 


And with this Alan fell into a muse, and for a long 
time sat very sad and silent. 

I will add the rest of what I have to say about my 
friend, that he was skilled in all kinds of music, but 
principally pipe music; was a well-considered poet 
in his own tongue; had read several books both in 
French and English; was a dead shot, a good angler, 
and an excellent fencer with the small sword as well 
as with his own particular weapon. For his faults, 
they were on his face, and I now knew them all. 
But the worst of them, his childish propensity to take 
offense and to pick quarrels, he greatly laid aside 
in my case, out of regard for the battle of the round- 
house. But whether it was because I had done well 
myself, or because I had been a witness of his own 
much greater prowess, is more than I can tell. For 
though he had a great taste for courage in other 
men, yet he admired it most in Alan Breck. 


! 

i 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE LOSS OF THE BRIG 

It was already late at night, and as dark as it ever 
would be at that season of the year (and that is to 
say, it was still pretty bright), when Hoseason 
clapped his head into the round-house door. 

“Here,” said he, “come out and see if ye can 
pilot.” 

“Is this one of your tricks?” asked Alan. 

“Do I look like tricks?” cries the captain. “I 
have other things to think of — my brig’s in danger! ” 

By the concerned look of his face, and, above 
all, by the sharp tones in which he spoke of his 
brig, it was plain to both of us he was in deadly 
earnest; and so Alan and I, with no great fear of 
treachery, stepped on deck. 

The sky was clear; it blew hard, and was bitter 
cold; a great deal of daylight lingered; and the 
moon, which was nearly full, shone brightly. The 
brig was close hauled, so as to round the southwest 
corner of the Island of Mull; the hills of which 
(and Ben More above them all, with a wisp of mist 
upon the top of it) lay full upon the larboard bow. 
Though it was no good point of sailing for the 
Covenant , she tore through the seas at a great 
rate, pitching and straining, and pursued by the 
westerly swell. 

Altogether it was no such ill night to keep the seas 
112 


KIDNAPPED 


ii3 

in; and I had begun to wonder what it was that 
sat so heavily upon the captain, when the brig 
rising suddenly on the top of a high swell he pointed 
and cried to us to look. Away on the lee bow, a 
thing like a fountain rose out of the moonlit sea, 
and immediately after we heard a low sound of 
roaring. 

“What do ye call that?” asked the captain 
gloomily. 

“The sea breaking on a reef,” said Allen. “And 
now ye ken where it is; and what better would ye 
have ? ” 

“Ay,” said Hoseason, “if it was the only one.” 

And sure enough just as he spoke there came a 
second fountain further to the south. 

“There!” said Hoseason. “Ye see for your- 
self. If I had kent of these reefs, if I had had a 
chart, or if Shuan had been spared, it’s not sixty 
guineas, no, nor six hundred, would have made me 
risk my brig in sic a stone-yard! But you, sir, that 
was to pilot us, have ye never a word ? ” 

“I’m thinking,” said Alan, “these’ll be what 
they call the Torran Rocks.” 

“Are there many of them ?” says the captain. 

“Truly, sir, I am nae pilot,” said Alan; “but it 
sticks in my mind there are ten miles of them.” 

Mr. Riach and the captain looked at each other. 

“There’s a way through them, I suppose?” said 
the captain. 

“Doubtless,” said Alan; “but where? But it 
somehow runs in my mind once more, that it is 
clearer under the land.” 

“So?” said Hoseason. “We’ll have to haul our 
wind then, Riach; we’ll have to come as near in 
about the end of Mull as we can take her, sir; and 


KIDNAPPED 


114 

even then we’ll have the land to keep the wind off 
us, and that stoneyard on our lee. Well, we’re in 
for it now, and may as well crack on.” 

With that he gave an order to the steersman, and 
sent Riach to the foretop. There were only five 
men on deck, counting the officers; these were all 
that were fit (or, at least, both fit and willing) for 
their work; and two of these were hurt. So, as I 
say, it fell to Mr. Riach to go aloft, and he sat there 
looking out and hailing the deck with news of all he 
saw. 

“The sea to the south is thick,” he cried; and then, 
after awhile, “It does seem clearer in by the land.” 

“Well, sir,” said Hoseason to Alan, “we’ll try your 
way of it. But I think I might as well trust to a 
blind fiddler. Pray God you’re right.” 

“Pray God lam!” says Alan to me. “But where 
did I hear it? Well, well, it will be as it must.” 

As we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs 
began to be sown here and there on our very path; 
and Mr. Riach sometimes cried down to us to 
change the course. Sometimes, indeed, none to 
soon; for one reef was so close on the brig’s weather 
board that when a sea burst upon it the lighter 
sprays fell upon her deck and wetted us like rain. 

The brightness of the night showed us these perils 
as clearly as by day, which was, perhaps, the more 
alarming. It showed me, too, the face of the cap- 
tain as he stood by the steersman, now on one foot, 
now on the other, and sometimes blowing in his 
hands, but still listening and looking and as steady 
as steel. Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown 
well in the fighting: but I saw they were brave 
in their own trade, and admired them all the more 
because I found Alan very white. 


KIDNAPPED 


IX S 

“Ochone, David,” said he, “this is no the kind 
of death I fancy.” 

“What, Alan!” I cried, “you’re not afraid?” 

“No,” said he, wetting his lips, “but you’ll allow 
yourself, it’s a cold ending.” 

By this time, now and then sheering to one side 
or the other to avoid a reef, but still hugging the 
wind and the land, we had got round Iona and be- 
gun to come along-side Mull. The tide of the tail 
of the land ran very strong, and threw the brig about. 
Two hands were put to the helm, and Hoseason 
himself would sometimes lend a help; and it was 
strange to see three strong men throw their weight 
upon the tiller, and it (like a living thing) struggle 
against and drive them back. This would have 
been the greater danger, had not the sea been for 
some while free of obstacles. Mr. Riach, besides, 
announced from the top that he saw clear water 
ahead. 

“Ye were right,” said Hoseason to Alan. “Ye 
have saved the brig, sir; I’ll mind that when we 
come to clear accounts.” And I believe he not 
only meant what he said, but would have done it; 
so high a place did the Covenant hold in his affec- 
tions. 

But this is matter only for conjecture, things hav- 
ing gone otherwise than he forecast. 

“Keep her away a point,” sings out Mr. Riach. 
“Reef to windward!” 

And just at the same time the tide caught the brig, 
and threw the. wind out of her sails. She came 
round into the wind like a top, and the next moment 
struck the reef with such a dunch as threw us all 
flat upon the deck, and came near to shake Mr. 
Riach from his place upon the mast. 


ii6 


KIPNAPPED 




I was on my feet in a minute. The reef on 
which we had struck was close in under the south- 
west end of Mull, off a little isle they call Earraid, 
which lay low and black upon the larboard. Some- 
times the swell broke clean over us; sometimes 
it only ground the poor brig upon the reef, so that 
we could hear her beat herself to pieces; and 
what with the great noise of the sails, and the sing- 
ing of the wind, and the flying of the spray in the 
moonlight, and the sense of danger, I think my 
head was partly turned, for I could scarcely under- 
stand the things I saw. 

Presently, I observed Mr. Riach and the seamen 
busy round the skiff; and still in the same blank, 
ran over to assist them; and as soon as I set my 
hand to work, my mind came clear again. It was 
no very easy task, for the skiff lay amidships and was 
full of hamper, and the breaking of the heavier seas 
continually forced us to give over and hold on; but 
we all wrought like horses while we could. 

Meanwhile such of the wounded as could move 
came clambering out of the forescuttle and began 
to help; while the rest that lay helpless in their 
bunks harrowed me with screaming and begging to 
be saved. 

The captain took no part. It seemed he was 
struck stupid. He stood holding by the shrouds, 
talking to himself and groaning out aloud whenever 
the ship hammered on the rock. His brig was like 
wife and child to him; he had looked on, day by 
day, at the mishandling of poor Ransome; but 
when it came to the brig, he seemed to suffer along 
with her. 

All the time of our working at the boat, I remem- 
ber only one other thing; that I asked Alan, looking 


KIDNAPPED 


117 


across at the shore, what country it was; and he 
answered, it was the worst possible for him, for it 
was a land of the Campbells. 

We had one of the wounded men told off to keep 
a watch upon the seas and cry us warning. Well, 
we had the boat about ready to be launched, when 
this man sang out pretty shrill: “For God’s sake, 
hold on!” We knew by his tone that it was some- 
thing more than ordinary; and sure enough, there 
followed a sea so huge that it lifted the brig right 
up and canted her over on her beam. Whether 
the cry came too late or my hold was too weak, 
I know not; but at the sudden tilting of the ship, 
I was cast clean over the bulwarks into the sea. 

I went down, and drank my fill; and then came 
up, and got a blink of the moon; and then down 
again. They say a man sinks the third time for 
good. I cannot be made like other folk, then, for I 
would not like to write how often I went down or 
how often I came up again. All the while, I was 
being hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and 
then swallowed whole; and the thing was so distract- 
ing to my wits, that I was neither sorry nor afraid. 

Presently, I found I was holding to a spar, which 
helped me somewhat. And then all of a sudden I 
was in quiet water, and began to come to myself. 

It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was 
amazed to see how far I had traveled from the brig. 
I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain she was already 
out of cry. She was still holding together; but 
whether or not they had yet launched the boat, I 
was too far off and too low down to see. 

While I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of 
water lying between us, where no great waves came, 
but which yet boiled white all over and bristled in 


KIDNAPPED 


118 

the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the 
whole tract swung to one side, like the tail of a live 
serpent; sometimes, for a glimpse, it all would 
disappear and then boil up again, What it was I 
had no guess, which for the time increased my fear 
of it; but I now know it must have been the roost 
or tide-race, which had carried me away so fast 
and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if 
tired of that play, had flung out me and the spare 
yard upon its landward margin. 

I now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that 
a man can die of cold as well as of drowning. The 
shores of Earraid were close in; I could see in the 
moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of 
the mica in the rocks. 

“Well,” thought I to myself, “if I cannot get as 
far as that, it’s strange.” 

I had no skill of swimming, Essen water being 
small in our neighborhood; but when I laid hold 
upon the yard with both arms, and kicked out with 
both feet, I soon began to find that I was moving. 
Hard work it was, and mortally slow; but in about 
an hour of kicking and splashing, I had got well 
in between the points of a sandy bay surrounded 
by low hills. 

The sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound 
of any surf; the moon shone clear; and I thought 
in my heart I had never seen a place so desert and 
desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last, 
it grew so shallow that I could leave the yard and 
wade ashore upon my feet, I cannot tell if I was 
more tired or more grateful. Both at least, I was; 
tired as I never was before that night; and grate- 
ful to God, as I trust I have been often, though 
never with more cause. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE ISLET 

With my stepping ashore, I began the most un- 
happy part of my adventures. It was half-past 
twelve in the morning, and though the wind was 
broken by the land, it was a cold night. I dared 
not sit down (for I thought I should have frozen), 
but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon 
the sand, barefoot and beating my breast, with 
infinite weariness. There was no sound of man or 
cattle; not a cock crew, though it was about the 
hour of their first waking; only the surf broke out- 
side in the distance, which put me in mind of my 
perils and those of my friend. To walk by the sea 
at that hour of the morning, and in a place so desert- 
like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear. 

As soon as the day began to break, I put on my 
shoes and climbed a hill — the ruggedest scramble I 
ever undertook — falling, the whole way, between 
big blocks of granite or leaping from one to another. 
When I got to the top the dawn was come. There 
was no sign of the brig, which must have lifted from 
the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to be 
seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; 
and in what I could see of the land, was neither 
house nor man. 

I was afraid to think what had befallen my ship- 
mates, and afraid to look longer at so empty a scene. 

119 


120 


KIDNAPPED 


What with my wet clothes and weariness, and my 
belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had 
enough to trouble me without that. So I set off 
eastward along the south coast, hoping to find a 
house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get 
news of those I had lost. And at the worst, I con- 
sidered the sun would soon rise and dry my .clothes. 

After a little, my way was stopped by a creek or 
inlet of the sea, which seemed to run pretty deep 
into the land; and as I had no means to get across, 
I must needs change my direction to go about the 
end of it. It was still the roughest kind of walking; 
indeed the whole, not only of Earraid, but of the 
neighboring part of Mull (which they call the Ross) 
is nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather 
in among. At first the creek kept narrowing as 
I had looked to see; but presently to my surprise 
it began to widen again. At this I scratched my 
head, but had still no notion of the truth; until at 
last I came to a rising ground, and it burst upon me 
all in a moment that I was cast upon a little, barren 
isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas. 

Instead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to 
rain, with a thick mist; so that my case was lament- 
able. 

I stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered 
what to do, till it occurred to me that perhaps the 
creek was fordable. Back I went to the narrowest 
point and waded in. But not three yards from 
shore, I plumped in head over ears; and if ever I was 
heard of more it was rather by God’s grace than 
my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could 
hardly be), but I was all the colder for this mishap; 
and having lost another hope, was the more un- 
happy. 


KIDNAPPED 


121 

And now, all at once, the yard came in my head. 
What had carried me through the roost, would surely 
serve me to cross this little quiet creek in safety. 
With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the 
isle, to fetch and carry it back. It was a weary 
tramp in all ways, and if hope had not buoyed me 
up, I must have cast myself down and given up. 
Whether with the sea salt, or because I was growing 
fevered, I was distressed with thirst, and had to 
stop, as I went, and drink the peaty water out of the 
hags. 

I came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; 
and at the first glance, I thought the yard was 
something further out than when I left it. In I 
went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand 
was smooth and firm and shelved gradually down; 
so that I could wade out till the water was almost 
to my neck and the little waves splashed into my 
face. But at that depth my feet began to leave me 
and I durst venture in no farther. As for the yard, 
I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet in 
front of me. 

I had borne up well until this last disappointment; 
but at that I came ashore, and flung myself down 
upon the sands and wept. 

The time I spent upon the island is still so horri- 
ble a thought to me, that I must pass it lightly over. 
In all the books I have read of people cast away, 
they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest 
of things would be thrown upon the beach along 
with them, as if on purpose. My case was very 
different. I had nothing in my pockets but money 
and Alan’s silver button; and being inland bred, I 
was as much short of knowledge as of means. 

I knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good 


122 


KIDNAPPED 


to eat; and among the rocks of the isle I found a 
great plenty of limpets, which at first I could scarcely 
strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be 
needful. There were, besides, some of the little 
shells that we call buckies; I think periwinkle is the 
English name. Of these two I made my whole diet, 
devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and 
so hungry was I, that at first they seemed to me de- 
licious. 

Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there 
was something wrong in the sea about my island. 
But at least I had no sooner eaten my first meal than 
I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay 
for a long time no better than dead. A second trial 
of the same food (indeed I had no other) did better 
with me and revived my strength. But as long as I 
was on the island, I never knew what to expect when 
I had eaten; sometimes all was well, and sometimes 
I was thrown into a miserable sickness; nor could I 
ever distinguish what particular fish it was that hurt 
me. 

All day it streamed rain, the island ran like a 
a sop; there was no dry spot to be found; and when 
I lay down that night, between two boulders that 
made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog. 

The second day, I crossed the island to all sides. 
There was no one part of it better than another; 
it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living on it 
but game birds which I lacked the means to kill 
and the gulls which haunted the outlying rocks in 
a prodigious number. But the creek, or straits, that 
cut off the isle from the main land of the Ross, 
opened out on the north into a bay, and the bay 
again opened into the Sound of Iona; and it was 
the neighborhood of this place that I chose to be 


KIDNAPPED 


123 


my home; though if I had thought upon the very 
name of home in such a spot, I must have burst out 
crying. 

I had good reasons for my choice. There was 
in this part of the isle a little hut of a house like a 
pig’s hut, where fishers used to sleep when they came 
there upon their business; but the turf roof of it 
had fallen entirely in ; so that the hut was of no use to 
me, and gave me less shelter than my rocks. What 
was more important, the shell-fish on which I lived 
grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out 
I could gather a peck at a time: and this was doubt- 
less a convenience. But the other reason went 
deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid 
solitude of the isle, but still looked round me on all 
sides (like a man that was hunted) between fear and 
hope that I might see some human creature coming. 
Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I 
could catch a sight of the great, ancient church 
and the roofs of the people’s houses in Iona. 
And on the other hand, over the low country of the 
Ross, I saw smoke go up, morning and evening, 
as if from a homestead in a hollow of the land. 

I used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and 
cold, and had my head half turned with loneliness; 
and think of the fireside and the company, till my 
heart burned. It was the same with the roofs of 
Iona. Altogether, this sight I had of men’s homes 
and comfortable lives, although it put a point on 
my own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive, and helped 
me to eat my raw shell-fish (which had soon grown 
to be a disgust) and saved me from the sense of 
horror I had whenever I was quite alone with dead 
rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea. 

I say it kept hope alive; and indeed it seemed 


124 


KIDNAPPED 


impossible that I should be left to die on the shores 
of my own country, and within view of a church 
tower and the smoke of men’s houses. But the 
second day passed; and though as long as the light 
lasted I kept a bright lookout for boats on the 
sound or men passing on the Ross, no help came 
near me. It still rained; and I turned in to sleep, 
as wet as ever and with a cruel sore throat, but a 
little comforted, perhaps, by having said good-night 
to my next neighbors, the people of Iona. 

Charles the Second declared a man could stay out 
doors more days in the year in the climate of Eng- 
land than in any other. This was very like a king 
with a palace at his back and changes of dry clothes. 
But he must have had better luck on his flight from 
Worcester than I had on that miserable isle. It was 
the height of the summer; yet it rained for more 
than twenty-four hours, and did not clear until the 
afternoon of the third day. 

This was the day of incidents. In the morning 
I saw a red deer, a buck with a fine spread of antlers, 
standing in the rain on the top of the island; but he 
had scarce seen me rise from under my rock, before 
he trotted off upon the other side. I supposed he 
must have swum the straits; though what should 
bring any creature to Earraid, was more than I could 
fancy. 

A little after, as I was jumping about after my 
limpets, I was startled by a guinea piece, which fell 
upon a rock in front of me and glanced off into the 
sea. When the sailors gave me my money again, 
they kept back not only about a third of the whole 
sum, but my father’s leather purse; so that from 
that day out, I carried my gold loose in a pocket with 
a button. I now saw there must be a hole, and 


KIDNAPPED 


I2 5 


clapped my hand to the place in a great hurry. But 
this was to lock the stable door after the steed was 
stolen. I had left the shore at Queensferry with 
near on fifty pounds; now I found no more than 
two guinea pieces and a silver shilling. 

It is true I picked up a third guinea a little after, 
where it lay shining on a piece of turf. That made 
a fortune of three pounds and four shillings, English 
money, for a lad, the rightful heir of an estate, 
and now starving on an isle at the extreme end of the 
wild Highlands. 

This state of my affairs dashed me still furthers 
and indeed my plight on that third morning wa; 
truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to rot; 
my stockings in particular were quite worn through, 
so that my shanks went naked; my hands had grown 
quite soft with the continual soaking; my throat 
was very sore, my strength had much abated, and 
my heart so turned against the horrid stuff I was 
condemned to eat, that the very sight of it came near 
to sicken me. 

And yet the worst was not yet come. 

There is a pretty high rock on the northwest of 
Earraid, which (because it had a flat top and over- 
looked the sound) I was much in the habit of fre- 
quenting ; not that ever I stayed in one place, save 
when asleep, my misery giving me no rest. Indeed, 
I wore myself down with continual and aimless goings 
and comings in the rain. 

As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down 
on the top of that rock to dry myself. The comfort 
of the sunshine is a thing I cannot tell. It set me 
thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I 
had begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and 
the Ross with a fresh interest. On the south of my 


126 


KIDNAPPED 


rock, a part of the island jutted out and hid the open 
ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me 
upon that side, and I be none the wiser. 

Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail 
and a pair of fishers aboard of it, came flying round 
that corner of the isle, bound for Iona. I shouted 
out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and j 

reached up my hands and prayed to them. They 
were near enough to hear — I could even see the 
color of their hair; and there was no doubt but 
they observed me, for they cried out in the Gaelic 
tongue and laughed. But the boat never turned 
aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona. 

I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along 
the shore from rock to rock, crying on them piteously; 
even after they were out of reach of my voice, I 
still cried and waved to them; and when they were 
quite gone, I thought my heart would have burst. 

All the time of my troubles, I wept only twice. 
Once, when I could not reach the oar; and now, 
the second time, when these fishers turned a deaf j 
ear to my cries. But this time I wept and roared 
like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with my 
nails and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish 
would kill men, those two fishers would never have 
seen morning; and I should likely have died upon 
my island. 

When I was a little over my anger, I must eat 
again, but with such loathing of the mess as I could 
now scarcely control. Sure enough, I should have 
done as well to fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. 

I had all my first pains; my throat was so sore I 
could scarce swallow; I had a fit of strong shudder- 
ing, which clucked my teeth together; and there 
came on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we 


KIDNAPPED 


127 


have no name for either in Scotch or English. I 
thought I should have died and made my peace 
with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the 
fishers; and as soon as I had thus made up my 
mind to the worst, clearness came upon me: I ob- 
served the night was falling dry; my clothes were 
dried a good deal; truly, I was in a better case 
than ever before since I had landed on the isle; 
and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of grati- 
tude. 

The next day (which was the fourth of this horri- 
ble life of mine) I found my bodily strength run very 
low. But the sun shone, the air was sweet, and what 
I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with 
me and revived my courage. 

I was scarce back on my rock (where I went al- 
ways the first thing after I had eaten) before I ob- 
served a boat coming down the sound and with her 
head, as I thought, in my direction. 

I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; 
for I thought these men might have thought better 
of their cruelty and be coming back to my assist- 
ance. But another disappointment, such as yester- 
day’s was more than I could bear. I turned my 
back, accordingly, upon the sea, and did not look 
again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat 
was still heading for the island. The next time I 
counted the full thousand, as slowly as I could, my 
heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was 
out of all question. She was coming straight to 
Earraid ! 

I could no longer hold myself back, but ran to the 
seaside and out, from one rock to another, as far as 
I could go. It is a marvel I was not drowned; for 
when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook 


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under me, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it 
with the sea-water before I was able to shout. 

All this time the boat was coming on; and now 
I was able to perceive it was the same boat and the 
same two men as yesterday. This I knew by their 
hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the 
other black. But now there was a third man along 
wit h them, who looked to be of .a better class. 

As soon as they were come within easy speech, 
they let down their sail and lay quiet. In spite of 
my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and what 
frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee’d 
with laughter as he talked and looked at me. 

Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me 
a long while, speaking fast and with many wavings 
of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and at 
this he became very angry, and I began to suspect 
he thought he was talking English. Listening very 
close, I caught the word “whateffer,” several times; 
but all the rest was Gaelic, and might have been 
Greek and Hebrew for me. 

“Whatever,” said I, to show him I had caught 
a word. 

“Yes, yes — yes, yes,” says he, and then he looked 
at the other men, as much as to say, “I told you I 
spoke English,” and began again as hard as ever 
in the Gaelic. 

This time I picked out another word, “tide.” 
Then I had a flash of hope. I remembered he was 
always waving his hand toward the mainland of the 
Ross. 

“Do you mean when the tide is out ?” I 

cried, and could not finish. 

“Yes, yes,” said he. “Tide.” 

“At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my 


KIDNAPPED 


129 


adviser had once more begun to tee-hee with laugh- 
ter), leaped back the way I had come, from one 
stone to another, and set off running across the isle 
as I had never run before. In about half an hour 
I came out upon the shores of the creek; and, sure 
enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water, 
through which I dashed, not above my knees, and 
landed with a shout on the main island. 

A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on 
Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, 
and except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered 
and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either 
dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who 
had the tide going out and in before me in the 
bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get 
my shell-fish even I (I say), if I had sat down to 
think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon 
guessed the secret and got free. It was no wonder 
the fishers had not understood me. The wonder 
was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful 
illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I 
had starved with cold and hunger on that island for 
close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I 
might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And 
even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only 
in past sufferings, but in my present case; being 
clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and 
in great pain of my sore throat. 

I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many 
of both; and I believe they both get paid in the end; 
but the fools first. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE 
ISLE OF MULL 

■ The Ross of Mull, which I had now got upon, was 
rugged and trackless, like the isle I had just left; 
being all bog, and brier, and big stone. There may 
be roads for them that know that country well; but 
for my part I had no better guide than my own 
nose, and no other landmark than Ben More. 

I aimed as well as I could for the smoke I had seen 
so often from the island; and with all my great 
weariness and the difficulty of the way, came upon 
the house at the bottom of a little hollow, about five 
or six at night. It was low and longish, roofed with 
turf and built of unmortared stones; and on a mound 
in front of it, an old gentleman sat smoking his pipe 
in the sun. 

With what little English he had, he gave me to un- 
derstand that my shipmates had got safe ashore, and 
had broken bread in that very house on the day after. 

“Was there one,” I asked, “dressed like a gentle- 
man?” 

He said they all wore rough great-coats; but to be 
sure, the first of them, the one that came alone, wore 
breeches and stockings, while the rest had sailors’ 
trousers. 

“Ah,” said I, “and he would have a feathered 
hat?” 

130 


KIDNAPPED 


131 

He told me, no, that he was bare-headed like 
myself. 

At first I thought Alan might have lost his hat; 
and then the rain came in my mind, and I judged 
it more likely he had it out of harm’s way under his 
great coat. This set me smiling, partly because my 
friend was safe, partly to think of his vanity in dress. 

And then the old gentleman clapped his hand to 
his brow, and cried out that I must be the lad with 
the silver button. 

“Why, yes!” said I, in some wonder. 

“Well, then,” said the old gentleman, “I have a 
word for you that you are to follow your friend to his 
country, by Torosay. ” 

He then asked me how I had fared, and I told him 
my tale. A south-country man would certainly 
have laughed; but this old gentleman (I call him so 
because of his manners, for his clothes were dropping 
off his back) heard me all through with nothing but 
gravity and pity. When I had done, he took me 
by the hand, led me into his hut (it was no better) 
and presented me before his wife, as if she had been 
the queen and I a duke. 

The good woman set oat-bread before me and a 
cold grouse, patting my shoulder and smiling to me 
all the time, for she had no English; and the old 
gentleman (not to be behind) brewed me a strong 
punch out of their country spirit. All the while I 
was eating, and after that when I was drinking the 
punch, I could scarce come to believe in my good 
fortune; and the house, though it was thick with 
the peat-smoke and as full of holes as a colander, 
seemed like a palace. 

The punch threw me in a strong sweat and a deep 
slumber; the good people let me lie; and it was near 


132 


KIDNAPPED 


noon of the next day before I took the road, my 
throat already easier and my spirits quite restored 
by good fare and good news. The old gentleman, 
although I pressed him hard, would take no money, 
and gave me an old bonnet for my head ; though I 
am free to own I was no sooner out of view of the 
house than I very zealously washed this gift of his in a 
wayside fountain. 

Thought I to myself: “If these are the wild High- 
landers, I could wish my own folk wilder. ” 

I not only started late, but I must have wandered 
nearly half the time. True, I met plenty of people, 
grubbing in little miserable fields that would not 
keep a cat, or herding little kine about the bigness of 
asses. The Highland dress being forbidden by law 
since the rebellion, and the people condemned to the 
lowland habit, which they much disliked, it was 
strange to see the variety of their array. Some went 
bare, only for a hanging cloak or great-coat, and 
carried their trousers on their backs like a useless 
burthen; some had made an imitation of the tartan 
with little parti-colored stripes patched together 
like an old wife’s quilt; others, again, still wore the 
Highland philabeg, but by putting a few stitches 
between the legs, transformed it into a pair of trousers 
like a Dutchman’s. All those makeshifts were con- 
demned and punished, for the law was harshly 
applied, in hopes to break up the clan spirit; but 
in that out-of-the-way, seabound isle, there were 
few to make remarks and fewer to tell tales. 

They seemed in great poverty: which was no 
doubt natural, now that rapine was put down, and 
the chiefs kept no longer an open house; and the 
roads (even such a wandering, country by-track as 
the one I followed) were infested with beggars. And 


KIDNAPPED 


133 


here again I marked a difference from my own part 
of the country. For our lowland beggars — even 
the gownsmen themselves, who beg by patent — 
had a louting, flattering way with them, and if you 
gave them a plack and ask change, would very 
civilly return you a boddle. But these Highland 
beggars stood on their dignity, asked alms only to 
buy snuff (by their account) and would give no 
change. 

To be sure, this was no concern of mine, except in 
so far as it entertained me by the way. What was 
much more to the purpose, few had any English, 
and these few (unless they were of the brotherhood 
of beggars) not very anxious to place it at my service. 
I knew Torosay to be my destination, and repeated 
the name to them and pointed; but instead of simply 
pointing in reply, they would give me a screed of the 
Gaelic that set me foolish; so it was small wonder 
if I went out of my road as often as I stayed in it. 

At last, about eight at night, and already very 
weary, I came to a lone house, where I asked ad- 
mittance and was refused until I bethought me of 
the power of money in so poor a country, and held 
up one of my guineas in my finger and thumb. 
Thereupon, the man of the house, who had hitherto 
pretended to have no English and driven me from 
his door by signals, suddenly began to speak as 
clearly as was needful, and agreed for five shillings 
to give me a night’s lodging and guide me the next 
day to Torosay. 

I slept uneasily that night, fearing I should be 
robbed ; but I might have spared myself the pain; 
for my host was no robber, only miserably poor and 
a great cheat. He was not alone in his poverty; 
for the next morning, we must go five miles about 


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KIDNAPPED 


to the house of what he called a rich man to have one 
of my guineas changed. This was perhaps a rich 
man for Mull; he would have scarce been thought 
so in the south; for it took all he had, the whole 
house was turned upside down, and a neighbor 
brought under contribution, before he could scrape 
together twenty shillings in silver. The odd shilling 
he kept for himself, protesting he could ill afford 
to have so great a sum of money lying “locked up.” 
For all that he was very courteous and well spoken, 
made us both sit down with his family for dinner, 
and brewed punch in a fine china bowl; over which 
my rascal guide grew so merry that he refused to 
start. 

I was for getting angry, and appealed to the rich 
man (Hector Maclean was his name) who had been 
a witness to our bargain and to my payment of the 
five shillings. But Maclean had taken his share of 
the punch, and vowed that no gentleman should 
leave his table after the bowl was brewed; so there 
was nothing for it but to sit and hear Jacobite toasts 
and Gaelic songs, till all were tipsy and staggered 
off to the bed or the barn for their night’s rest. 

Next day (the fourth of my travels) we were up 
before five upon the clock, but my rascal guide got 
to the bottle at once; and it was three hours before 
I had him clear of the house, and then (as you shall 
hear) only for a worse disappointment. 

As long as we went down a heathery valley that 
lay before Mr. Maclean’s house, all went well; only 
my guide looked constantly over his shoulder, and 
when I asked him the cause, only grinned at me. 
No sooner, however, had we crossed the back of a 
hill, and got out of sight of the back windows, than 
he told me Torosay lay right in front, and that a 


KIDNAPPED 


i3S 


hill-top (which he pointed out) was my best land- 
mark. 

“I care very little for that,” said I, “since you are 
going with me. ” 

The impudent cheat answered me in the Gaelic 
that he had no English. 

“My fine fellow,” I said, “I know very well your 
English comes and goes. Tell me what will bring 
it back ? Is it more money you wish ? ” 

“Five shillings mair,” said he, “and herseP will 
bring ye there.” 

I reflected awhile and then offered him two, which 
he accepted greedily, and insisted on having in his 
hands at once — “for luck,” as he said, but I think 
it was rather for my misfortune. 

The two shillings carried him not quite as many 
miles; at the end of which distance, he sat down 
upon the wayside and took off his brogues from his 
feet, like a man about to rest. 

I was now red-hot. “Ha!” said I, “have you no 
more English?” 

He said impudently, “No.” 

At that I boiled over and lifted my hand to strike 
him; and he, drawing a knife from his rags, squatted 
back and grinned at me like a wild-cat. At that, 
forgetting everything but my anger, I ran in upon 
him, put aside his knife with my left and struck him 
in the mouth with my right. I was a strong lad and 
very angry, and he but a little man; and he went 
down before me heavily. By good luck, his knife 
flew out of his hand as he fell. 

I picked up both that and his brogues, wished 
him a good-morning and set off upon my way, 
leaving him barefoot and disarmed. I chuckled 
to myself as I went, being sure I was done with that 


136 


KIDNAPPED 


rogue, for a variety of reasons. First, he knew he 
could have no more of my money; next, the brogues 
were worth in that country only a few pence; and 
lastly the knife, which was really a dagger, it was 
against the law for him to carry. 

In about half-an-hour of walk, I overtook a great 
ragged man, moving pretty fast but feeling before him 
with a staff. He was quite blind, and told me he was 
a catechist, which should have put me at my ease. 
But his face went against me; it seemed dark and 
dangerous and secret; and presently, as we began 
to go on alongside, I saw the steel butt of a pistol 
sticking from under the flap of his coat-pocket. To 
carry such a thing meant a fine of fifteen pounds 
sterling upon a first offense, and transportation to the 
colonies upon a second. Nor could I quite see why 
a religious teacher should go armed, or what a blind 
man could be doing with a pistol. 

I told him about my guide, for I was proud of 
what I had done, and my vanity for once got the 
heels of my prudence. At the mention of the five 
shillings he cried out so loud that I made up my 
mind I should say nothing of the other two, and was 
glad he could not see my blushes. 

“Was it too much ?” I asked, a little faltering. 

“Too much!” cries he. “Why, I will guide you 
to Torosay myself for a dram of brandy. And give 
you the great pleasure of my company (me that is a 
man of some learning) in the bargain. ” 

I said I did not see how a blind man could be a 
guide; but at that he laughed aloud, and said his 
stick was eyes enough for an eagle. 

“In the Isle of Mull, at least,” says he, “where I 
know every stone and heatherbush by mark of head. 
See, now,” he said, striking right and left, as if to 


KIDNAPPED 


137 


make sure, “down there a burn is running; and at 
the head of it there stands a bit of a small hill with a 
stone cocked upon the top of that; and it’s hard at 
the foot of the hill, that the way runs by to Torosay; 
and the way here, being for droves, is plainly trodden, 
and will show grassy through the heather. ” 

I had to own he was right in every feature, and 
told my wonder. 

“Ha!” says he, “that’s nothing. Would ye believe 
me now, that before the Act came out, and when 
there were weapons in this country, I could shoot? 
Ay, could I ! ” cries he, and then with a leer: “ If ye 
had such a thing as a pistol here to try with, I would 
show ye how it’s done. ” 

I told him I had nothing of the sort, and gave him 
a wider berth. If he had known, his pistol stuck at 
that time quite plainly out of his pocket, and I could 
see the sun twinkle on the steel of the butt. But 
by the better luck for me, he knew nothing, thought 
all was covered, and lied on in the dark. 

He then began to question me cunningly, where I 
came from, whether I was rich, whether I could 
change a five-shilling piece for him (which he de- 
clared he had at that moment in his sporran), and 
all the time he kept edging up to me, and I avoiding 
him. We were now upon a sort of green cattle-track 
which crossed the hills toward Torosay, and we 
kept changing sides upon that like dancers in a reel. 
I had so plainly the upper hand that my spirits rose, 
and indeed I took a pleasure in this game of blind- 
man’s buff; but the catechist grew angrier and 
angrier, and at last began to swear in Gaelic and to 
strike for my legs with his staff. 

Then I told him that, sure enough, I had a pistol 
in my pocket as well as he, and if he did not strike 


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KIDNAPPED 


across the hill due south I would even blow his brains 
out. 

He became at once very polite; and after trying to 
soften me for some time, but quite in vain, he cursed 
me once more in the Gaelic and took himself off. 
I watched him striding along, through bog and brier, 
tapping with his stick, until he turned the end of a 
hill and disappeared in the next hollow. Then I 
struck on again for Torosay, much better pleased to 
be alone than to travel with that man of learning. 
This was an unlucky day; and these two, of whom 
I had just rid myself, one after the other, were the 
two worst men I met with in the Highlands. 

At Torosay, on the Sound of Mull and looking 
over to the mainland of Morven, there was an inn 
with an inn-keeper, who was a Maclean, it appeared, 
of a very high family; for to keep an inn is thought 
even more genteel in the Highlands than it is with 
us, perhaps as partaking of hospitality, or perhaps 
because the trade is idle and drunken. He spoke 
good English, and finding me to be something of a 
scholar, tried me first in French, where he easily beat 
me, and then in Latin, in which I don’t know which 
of us did best. This pleasant rivalry put us at once 
upon friendly terms; and I sat up and drank punch 
with him (or, to be more correct, sat up and watched 
him drink it) until he was so tipsy that he wept upon 
my shoulder. 

I tried him, as if by accident, with a sight of Alan’s 
button; but it was plain he had never seen or heard 
of it. Indeed, he bore some grudge against the family 
and friends of Ardshiel, and before he was drunk he 
read me a lampoon, in very good Latin, but with a 
very ill meaning, which he had made in elegiac verses 
upon a person of that house.. 1 .. .. 


KIDNAPPED 


m 


When I told him of my catechist, he shook his 
head, and said I was lucky to have got clear off. 
“That is a very dangerous man,” he said; “Duncan 
Mackiegh is his name; he can shoot by the ear at 
several yards, and has been often accused of highway 
robberies, and once of murder.” 

“The cream of it is,” says I, “that he called him- 
self a catechist. ” 

“And why should he not?” says he, “when that 
is what he is ? It was Maclean of Duart gave it to 
him because he was blind. But, perhaps, it was a 
peety,” says my host, “for he is always on the road, 
going from one place to another to hear the young 
folk say their religion; and doubtless that is a great 
temptation to the poor man. ” 

At last, when my landlord could drink no more, he 
showed me to a bed, and I lay down in very good 
spirits; having traveled the greater part of that big 
and crooked Island of Mull, from Earraid to Torosay, 
fifty miles as the crow flies, and (with my wander- 
ings) much nearer a hundred, in four days and with 
little fatigue. Indeed, I was by far in better heart 
and health of body at the end of that long tramp 
than I had been at the beginning. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS 
MORVEN 

There is a regular ferry from Torosay to Kinlocha- 
line on the mainland. Both shores of the sound are 
in the country of the strong clan of the Macleans, 
and the people that passed the ferry with me were al- 
most all of that clan. The skipper of the boat, on 
the other hand, was called Neil Roy Macrob; and 
since Macrob was one of the names of Alan’s clans- 
men, and Alan himself had sent me to that ferry, I 
was eager to come to private speech of Neil Roy. 

In the crowded boat this was of course impossible, 
and the passage was a very slow affair. There was 
no wind, and as the boat was wretchedly equipped, 
we could pull but two oars on one side, and one on 
the other. The men gave away, however, with a 
good will, the passengers taking spells to help them, 
and the whole company giving the time in Gaelic 
boat-songs. And what with the songs, and the sea 
air, and the good nature and spirit of all concerned, 
and the brighter weather, the passage was a pretty 
thing to have seen. 

But there was one melancholy part. In the 
mouth of Loch Aline we found a great sea-going 
ship at anchor; and this I supposed at first to be one 
of the king’s cruisers which were kept along that 
coast, both summer and winter, to prevent communi- 


KIDNAPPED 


141 

cation with the French. As we got a little nearer, 
it became plain she was a ship of merchandise; and 
what still more puzzled me, not only her decks, but 
the sea-beach also, were quite black with people, 
and skiffs were continually plying to and fro between 
them. Yet nearer, and there began to come to our 
ears a great sound of mourning, the people on 
board and those on the shore crying and lamenting 
one to another so as to pierce the heart. 

Then I understood this was an emigrant ship 
bound for the American colonies. 

We put the ferry-boat alongside, and the exiles 
leaned over the bulwarks, weeping and reaching out 
their hands to my fellow-passengers, among whom 
they counted some near friends. How long this 
might have gone on I do not know, for they seemed 
to have no sense of time: but at last the captain of 
the ship, who seemed near beside himself (and no 
great wonder) in the midst of this crying and con- 
fusion, came to the side and begged us to depart. 

Thereupon Neil sheered off; and the chief singer 
in our boat struck into a melancholy air, which was 
presently taken up both by the emigrants and their 
friends upon the beach, so that it sounded from all 
sides like a lament for the dying. I saw the tears 
run down the cheeks of the men and women in the 
boat, even as they bent at the oars; and the circum- 
stances, and the music of the song (which is one called 
“Lochaber no more”) were highly affecting even to 
myself. 

At Kinlochaline I got Neil Roy upon one side on 
the beach, and said I made sure he was one of Ap- 
pin’s men. 

“And what for no?” said he. 

“I am seeking somebody,” said I; “and it comes 


KIDNAPPED 


142 

in my mind that you will have news of him. Alan 
Breck Stewart is his name.” And very foolishly 
instead of showing him the button, I sought to pass 
a shilling in his hand. 

At this he drew back. “I am very much af- 
fronted,” he said; “and this is not the way that 
one shentleman should behave to another at all. 
The man you ask for is in France; but if he was in 
my sporran,” says he, “and your belly full of shill- 
ings, I would not hurt a hair upon his body.” 

I saw I had gone the wrong way to work, and with- 
out wasting time upon apologies, showed him the 
button lying in the hollow of my palm. 

“Aweel, aweel,” said Neil; “and I think ye 
might have begun with that end of the stick, what- 
ever! But if ye are the lad with the silver button, 
all is well, and I have the word to see that ye come 
safe. But if ye will pardon me to speak plainly *” 
says he, “there is a name that you should never 
take into your mouth, and that is the name of Alan 
Breck; and there is a thing that ye would never 
do, and that is to offer your dirty money to a Hieland 
shentleman.” 

It was not very easy to apologize; for I could 
scarce tell him (what was the truth) that I had never 
dreamed he would set up to be a gentleman until 
he told me so. Neil on his part had no wish to pro- 
long his dealings with me, only to fulfill his orders 
and be done with it; and he made haste to give me 
my route. This was to lie the night in Kinlochaline 
in the public inn; to cross Morven the next day to 
Ardgour, and lie the night in the house of one John 
of the Claymore, who was warned that I might 
come; the third day, to be set across one loch at 
Corran and another at Balachulish, and then ask 


KIDNAPPED 


143 


my way to the house of James of the Glens, at 
Aucharn in Duror of Appin. There was a good 
deal of ferrying as you hear; the sea in all this part 
running deep into the mountains and winding about 
their roots. It makes the country strong to hold 
and difficult to travel, but full of prodigious, wild 
and dreadful prospects. 

I had some other advice from Neil; to speak with 
no one by the way, to avoid Whigs, Campbells, and 
the “red soldiers”; to leave the road and lie in a 
bush, if I saw any of the latter coming, “for it was 
never chancy to meet in with them;” and in brief, 
to conduct myself like a robber or a Jacobite agent, 
as perhaps Neil thought me. 

The inn at Kinlochaline was the most beggarly, 
vile place that ever pigs were styed in, full of smoke, 
vermin, and silent Highlanders. I was not only 
discontented with my lodgings, but with myself for 
my mismanagement of Neil, and thought I could 
hardly be worse off. But very wrongly, as I was soon 
to see; for I had not been half-an-hour at the inn 
(standing at the door most of the time, to ease my 
eyes from the peat smoke) when a thunderstorm came 
close by, the springs broke in a little hill on which 
the inn stood, and one end of the house became a 
running water. Places of public entertainment were 
bad enough all over Scotland in those days; yet it was 
a wonder to myself, when I had to go from the fire- 
side to the bed in which I slept, wading over the shoes. 

Early in my next day’s journey, I overtook a little, 
stout, solemn man, walking very slowly with his 
toes turned out, sometimes reading in a book and 
sometimes marking the place with his finger, and 
dressed decently and plainly in something of a 
clerical style. 


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This I found to be another catechist, but of a 
different order from the blind man of Mull; being 
indeed one of those sent out by the Edinburgh 
Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, to 
evangelize the more savage places of the High- 
lands. His name was Henderland; he spoke 
with the broad south-country tongue, which I was 
beginning to weary for the sound of; and besides 
common countryship, we soon found we had a 
more particular bond of interest. For my good 
friend, the minister of Essendean, had translated 
into the Gaelic in his by-time a number of hymns 
and pious books, which Henderland used in his 
work and held in great esteem. Indeed it was one 
of these he was carrying and reading when we 
met. 

We fell into company at once, our ways lying to- 
gether as far as Kingairloch. As we went, he 
stopped and spoke with all the wayfarers and work- 
ers that we met or passed; and though of course I 
could not tell what they discoursed about, yet I 
judged Mr. Henderland must be well liked in the 
country-side, for I observed many of them to bring 
out their mulls and share a pinch of snuff with him. 

I told him as far in my affairs as I judged wise; 
as far, that is, as they were none of Alan’s; and 
gave Balachulish as the place I was traveling to, to 
meet a friend; for I thought Aucharn, or even 
Duror, would be too particular and might put him 
on the scent. 

On his part, he told me much of his work and the 
people he worked among, the hiding priests and 
Jacobites, the Disarming Act, the dress, and many 
other curiosities of the time and place. He seemed 
moderate: blaming Parliament in several points, 


KIDNAPPED 


US 


and especially because they had framed the Act 
more severely against those who wore the dress than 
against those who carried weapons. 

This moderation put it in my mind to question 
him of the Red Fox and the Appin tenants: ques- 
tions which, I thought, would seem natural enough 
in the mouth of one traveling to that country. 

He said it was a bad business. “It’s wonder- 
ful,” said he, “where the tenants find the money, 
for their life is mere starvation. (Ye don’t carry 
such a thing as snuff, do ye, Mr. Balfour? No. 
Well, I’m better wanting it.) But these tenants 
(as I was saying) are doubtless partly driven to it. 
James Stewart in Duror (that’s him they call James 
of the Glens) is half-brother to Ardshiel, the cap- 
tain of the clan; and he is a man much looked up 
to, and drives very hard. And then there’s one they 
call Alan Breck ” 

“Ah ! ” cried I, “ what of him ?” 

“ What of the wind that bloweth where it listeth ?” 
said Henderland. “He’s here and awa; here to- 
day and gone to-morrow; a fair heather-cat. He 
might be glowering at the two of us out of yon whin 
bush, and I wouldnae wonder! Ye’ll no carry such 
a thing as snuff, will ye?” 

I told him no, and that he had asked the same 
thing more than once. 

“It’s highly possible,” said he, sighing. “But it 
seems strange ye shouldnae carry it. However, 
as I was saying, this Alan Breck is a bold, desperate 
customer, and well kent to be James’ right hand. 
His life is forfeit already; he would boggle at nae- 
thing; and maybe, if a tenant-body was to hang 
back, he would get a dirk in his wame.” 

“You make a poor story of it all, Mr. Hender- 


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KIDNAPPED 


land,” said I. “If it is all fear upon both sides, I 
care to hear no more of it.” 

“Na,” said Mr. Henderland, “but there’s love 
too, and self-denial that should put the like of you 
and me to shame. There’s something fine about 
it; no perhaps Christian, but humanely fine. Even 
Alan Breck, by all that I hear, is a chield to be re- 
spected. There’s many a lying sneck-draw sits 
close in kirk in our own part of the country, and 
stands well in the world’s eye, and maybe is a far 
worse man, Mr. Balfour, than yon misguided shed- 
der of man’s blood. Ay, ay, we might take a lesson 
by them. Ye’ll perhaps think I’ve been too long 
in the Hielands?” he added, smiling to me. 

I told him not at all; that I had seen much to 
admire among the Highlanders; and if he came to 
that, Mr. Campbell himself was a Highlander. 

“Ay,” said he, “that’s true. It’s a fine blood.” 

“And what is the king’s agent about ? ” I asked. 

“Colin Campbell?” says Henderland. “Putting 
his head in a bee’s byke!” 

“He is to turn the tenants out by force, I hear?” 
said I. 

“Yes,” says he, “but the business has gone back 
and forth, as folks say. First, James of the Glens 
rode to Edinburgh and got some lawyer (a Stewart, 
nae doubt — they all hing together like bats in a 
steeple) and had the proceedings stayed. And then 
Colin Campbell cam’ in again, and had the upper 
hand before the Barons of Exchequer. And now 
they tell me the first of the tenants are to flit to-mor- 
row. It’s to begin at Duror under James’ very 
windows, which doesnae seem wise by my humble 
way of it.” 


KIDNAPPED 


147 


“Well,” says Henderland, “they’re disarmed — 
or supposed to be — for there’s still a good deal of 
cold iron lying by in quiet places. And then Colin 
Campbell has the sogers coming. But for all that, 
if I was his lady wife, I wouldnae be well pleased till 
I got him home again. They’re queer customers, the 
Appin Stewarts.” 

I asked if they were worse than their neighbors. 

“No they,” said he. “And that’s the worst part 
of it. For if Colin Roy can get his business done 
in Appin, he has it all to begin again in the next 
country, which they call Mamore, and which is one 
of the countries of the Camerons. He’s king’s factor 
upon both, and from both he has to drive out the 
tenants; and indeed, Mr. Balfour (to be open with 
ye) it’s my belief that if he escapes the one lot, he’ll 
get his death by the other.” 

So we continued talking and walking the great 
part of the day; until at last, Mr. Henderland, after 
expressing his delight in my company, and satis- 
faction at meeting with a friend of Mr. Campbell’s 
(“whom,” says he, “I will make bold to call that 
sweet singer of our covenanted Zion ”) proposed that, 
I should make a short stage, and lie the night in his 
house a little beyond Kingairloch. To say truth, 
I was overjoyed; for I had no great desire for John 
of the Claymore, and since my double misadventure, 
first with the guide and next with the gentleman 
skipper, I stood in some fear of any Highland 
stranger. Accordingly, we shook hands upon the 
bargain, and came in the afternoon to a small house, 
standing alone by the shore of the Linnhe Loch. 
The sun was already gone from the desert moun- 
tains of Ardgour upon the hither side, but shone on 
those of Appin on the farther; the loch lay as still 


148 


KIDNAPPED 


as a lake, only the gulls were crying round the sides 
of it; and the whole place seemed solemn and un- 
couth. 

We had no sooner come to the door of Mr. Hender- 
land’s dwelling, than to my great surprise (for I 
was now used to the politeness of Highlanders) he 
burst rudely past me, dashed into the room, caught 
up a jar and a small horn spoon, and began ladling 
snuff into his nose in most excessive quantities. 
Then he had a hearty fit of sneezing, and looked 
round upon me with a rather silly smile. 

“ It’s a vow I took,” says he. “ I took a vow upon 
me that I would nae carry it. Doubtless it’s a great 
privation; but when I think upon the martyrs, not 
only to the Scottish Covenant but to other points of 
Christianity, I think shame to mind it.” 

As soon as we had eaten (and porridge and whey 
was the best of the good man’s diet) he took a grave 
face and said he had a duty to perform by Mr. 
Campbell, and that was to inquire into my state of 
mind toward God. I was inclined to smile at him, 
since the business of the snuff ; but he had not spoken 
long before he brought the tears into my eyes. There 
are two things that men should never weary of, 
goodness and humility; we get none too much of 
them in this rough world and among cold, proud 
people; but Mr. Henderland had their very speech 
upon his tongue. And though I was a good deal 
puffed up with my adventures and with having 
come off, as the saying is, with flying colors, yet he 
soon had me on my knees beside a simple, poor old 
man, and both proud and glad to be there. 

Before we went to bed he offered me sixpence to 
help me on my way, out of a scanty store he kept in 
the turf wall of his house; at which excess of good- 


KIDNAPPED 


149 


ness I knew not what to do. But at last he was 
so earnest with me, that I thought it the more man- 
nerly part to let him have his way, and so left him 
poorer than myself. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX 

The next day Mr. Henderland found for me a man 
who had a boat of his own and was to cross the 
Linnhe Loch that afternoon into Appin, fishing. 
Him he prevailed on to take me, for he was one of 
his flock; and in this way I saved a long day’s travel 
and the price of the two public ferries I must other- 
wise have passed. 

It was near noon before we set out; a dark day 
with clouds, and the sun shining upon little patches. 
The sea was here very deep and still, and had scarce 
a wave upon it; so that I must put the water to my 
lips before I could believe it to be truly salt. The 
mountains on either side were high, rough, and 
barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of the 
clouds, but all silver-laced with little watercourses 
where the sun shone upon them. It seemed a hard 
country, this of Appin, for people to care as much 
about as Alan did. 

There was but one thing to mention. A little after 
we had started, the sun shone upon a little moving 
clump of scarlet close in along the waterside to the 
north. It was much of the same red as soldiers’ 
coats; every now and then, too, there came little 
sparks and lightnings, as though the sun had struck 
upon bright steel. 

I asked my boatman what it should be; and he 
150 


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i5i 

answered he supposed it was some of the red soldiers 
coming in from Fort William into Appin, against the 
poor tenantry of the country. Well, it was a sad 
sight to me; and whether it was because of my 
thoughts of Alan, or from something prophetic in my 
bosom, although this was but the second time I had 
seen King George’s troops, I had no good will to 
them. 

At last we came so near the point of land at the 
entering in of Loch Leven that I begged to be set on 
shore. My boatman (who was an honest fellow and 
mindful of his promise to the catechist) would fain 
have carried me on to Balachulish; but as this was 
to take me farther from my secret destination, I 
insisted, and was set on shore at last under the wood 
of Lettermore (or Lettervore, for I have heard it 
both ways) in Alan’s country of Appin. 

This was a wood of birches, growing on a steep, 
craggy side of a mountain that overhung the loch. 
It had many openings and ferny dells; and a road 
or bridle track ran north and south through the midst 
of it, by the edge of which, where was a spring, I sat 
down to eat some oat-bread of Mr. Henderland’s 
and think upon my situation. 

Here I was not only troubled by a cloud of stinging 
midges, but far more by the doubts of my mind. 
What I ought to do, why I was going to join myself 
with an outlaw and a would-be murderer like Alan, 
whether I should not be acting more like a man of 
sense to tramp back to the south country direct, by 
my own guidance and at my own charges, and what 
Mr. Campbell or even Mr. Henderland would think 
of me if they should ever learn my folly and presump- 
tion: these were the doubts that now began to come 
in on me stronger than ever. 


152 


KIDNAPPED 


As I was so sitting and thinking, a sound of men 
and horses came to me through the wood; and pres- 
ently after, at a turning of the road, I saw four 
travelers come into view. The way was in this part 
so rough and narrow that they came single and led 
their horses by the reins. The first was a great, 
red-headed gentleman, of an imperious and flushed 
face, who carried his hat in his hand and fanned 
himself, for he was in a breathing heat. The second, 
by his decent black garb and white wig, I correctly 
took to be a lawyer. The third was a servant, and 
wore some part of his clothes in tartan, which showed 
that his master was of a Highland family, and either 
an outlaw or else in singular good odor with the 
Government, since the wearing of tartan was against 
the Act. If I had been better versed in these things, 
I would have known the tartan to be of the Argyle 
(or Campbell) colors. This servant had a good- 
sized portmanteau strapped on his horse, and a net 
of lemons (to brew punch with) hanging at the 
saddle-bow; as was often enough the custom with 
luxurious travelers in that part of the country. 

As for the fourth, who brought up the tail, I had 
seen his like before, and knew him at once to be a 
sheriff’s officer. 

I had no sooner seen these people coming than I 
made up my mind (for no reason that I can tell) to 
go through with my adventure; and when the first 
came alongside of me, I rose up from the bracken 
and asked him the way to Aucharn. 

He stopped and looked at me, as I thought, a little 
oddly; and then, turning to the lawyer, “Mungo,” 
said he, “there’s many a man would think this more 
of a warning than two pyats. Here am I on my 
road to Duror on the job ye ken; and here is a young 


KIDNAPPED 


153 


lad starts up out of the bracken, and speers if I am 
on the way to Aucharn. ” 

“Glenure,” said the other, “this is an ill subject 
for jesting. ” 

These two had now drawn close up and were 
gazing at me, while the two followers had halted 
about a stonecast in the rear. 

“And what seek ye in Aucharn?” said Colin Roy 
Campbell of Glenure; him they call the Red Fox; 
for he it was I had stopped. 

“The man that lives there,” said I. 

“James of the Glens?” says Glenure, musingly: 
and then to the lawyer: “ Is he gathering his people, 
think ye?” 

“Anyway,” says the lawyer, “we shall do better 
to bide where we are, and let the soldiers rally us. ” 

“If you are concerned for me,” said I, “I am 
neither of his people nor yours, but an honest subject 
of King George, owing no man and fearing no man.” 

“Why, very well said,” replies the factor. “But 
if I may make so bold as ask, what does this honest 
man so far from his country ? and why does he come 
seeking the brother of Ardshiel? I have power 
here, I must tell you. I am king’s factor upon 
several of these estates and have twelve files of 
soldiers at my back. ” 

“I have heard a waif word in the country,” said I, 
a little nettled, “ that you were a hard man to drive. ” 

He still kept looking at me, as if in doubt. 

“Well,” said he, at last, “your tongue is bold, but 
I am no unfriend to plainness. If ye had asked me 
the way to the door of James Stewart on any other 
day but this, I would have set ye right and bidden ye 
God speed. But to-day — eh, Mungo?” And 
he turned again to look at the lawyer. 


154 


KIDNAPPED 


But just as he turned there came the shot of a 
firelock from higher up the hill; and with the very 
sound of it Glenure fell upon the road. 

“O, I am dead!” he cried, several times over. 

The lawyer had caught him up and held him in 
his arms, the servant standing over and clasping his 
hands. And now the wounded man looked from 
one to another with scared eyes, and there was a 
change in his voice that went to the heart. 

“Take care of yourselves,” says he. “I am 
dead.” 

He tried to open his clothes as if to look for the 
wound, but his fingers slipped on the buttons. With 
that he gave a great sigh, his head rolled on his 
shoulder, and he passed away. 

The lawyer said never a word, but his face was as 
sharp as a pen and as white as the dead man’s; the 
servant broke out into a great noise of crying and 
weeping, like a child; and I, on my side, stood 
staring at them in a kind of horror. The sheriff’s 
officer had run back at the first sound of the shot, 
to hasten the coming of the soldiers. 

At last the lawyer laid down the dead man in his 
blood upon the road, and got to his own feet with 
a kind of stagger. 

I believe it was his movement that brought me to 
my senses; for he had no sooner done so than I 
began to scramble up the hill, crying out, “The 
murderer! the murderer.” 

So little a time had elapsed, that when I got to 
the top of the first steepness, and could see some 
part of the open mountain, the murderer was still 
moving away at no great distance. He was a big 
man, in a black coat, with metal buttons and 
carried a long fowling-piece. 


KIDNAPPED 


!55 


“Here!” I cried. “I see him!” 

At that the murderer gave a little, quick look over 
his shoulder, and began to run. The next moment 
he was lost in a fringe of birches; then he came out 
again on the upper side, where I could see him 
climbing like a jackanapes, for that part was again 
very steep; and then he dipped behind a boulder, 
and I saw him no more. 

All this time I had been running on my side, and 
had got a good way up, when a voice cried upon 
me to stand. 

I was at the edge of the upper wood, and so now, 
when I halted and looked back, I saw all the open 
part of the hill below me. The lawyer and the 
sheriff’s officer were standing just above the road, 
crying and waving on me to come back; and on 
their left, the redcoats, musket in hand, were be- 
ginning to struggle singly out of the lower wood. 

“Why should I come back?” I cried. “Come 
you on!” 

“Ten pounds if ye take that lad!” cried the 
lawyer. “He’s an accomplice. He was posted 
here to hold us in talk.” 

At that word (which I could hear quite plainly, 
though it was to the soldiers and not to me that he 
was crying it) my heart came in my mouth with 
quite a new kind of terror. Indeed, it is one thing 
to stand the danger of your life, and quite another 
to run the peril of both life and character. The 
thing, besides, had come so suddenly, like thunder 
out of a clear sky, that I was all amazed and help- 
less. 

The soldiers began to spread, some of them to 
run, and others to put up their pieces and cover me; 
and still I stood, 


KIDNAPPED 


156 


“Jouk* in here among the trees,” said a voice, 
close by. 

Indeed, I scarce knew what I was doing, but I 
obeyed; and as I did so, I heard the firelocks bang 
and the balls whistle in the birches. 

Just inside the shelter of the trees I found Alan 
Breck standing, with a fishing-rod. He gave me 
no salutation; indeed it was no time for civilities; 
only “Come!” says he, and set off running along 
the side of the mountain toward Balachulish; and^ 
I, like a sheep, to follow him. 

Now we ran among the birches; now stooping 
behind low humps upon the mountain side; now 
crawling on all-fours among the heather. The 
pace was deadly, my heart seemed bursting against 
my ribs; and I had neither time to think nor breath 
to speak with. Only I remember seeing with 
wonder, that Alan every now and then would 
straighten himself to his full height and look back; 
and every time he did so, there came a great far- 
away cheering and crying of the soldiers. 

Quarter of an hour later, Alan stopped, clapped 
down flat in the heather, and turned to me. 

“Now,” said he, “it’s earnest. Do as I do for 
your life.” 

And at the same speed, but now with infinitely 
more precaution, we traced back again across the 
mountain side by the same way that we had come, 
only perhaps higher; till at last Alan threw him- 
self down in the upper wood of Lettermore, where 
I had found him at the first, and lay, with his face 
in the bracken, panting like a dog. 

My own sides so ached, my head so swam, my 
tongue so hung out of my mouth with heat and dry- 
ness, that I lay beside him like one dead. 

* Duck. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE 

Alan was the first to come round. He rose, went 
to the border of the wood, peered out a little, and 
then returned and sat down. 

“Well,” said he, “yon was a hot burst, David.” 

I said nothing, nor so much as lifted my face. 
I had seen murder done, and a great, ruddy, jovial 
gentleman struck out of life in a moment; the pity 
of that sight was still sore within me, and yet that 
was but a part of my concern. Here was murder 
done upon the man Alan hated; here was Alan 
skulking in the trees and running from the troops; 
and whether his was the hand that fired or only the 
head that ordered, signified but little. By my 
way of it, my only friend in that wild country was 
blood-guilty in the first degree; I held him in horror; 
I could not look upon his face; I would rather have 
lain alone in the rain on my cold isle, than in that 
warm wood beside a murderer. 

“Are ye still wearied?” he asked again. 

“No, said I, still with my face in the bracken; 
“no, I am not wearied now, and I can speak. You 
and me must twine,” * I said. “I liked you very 
well, Alan; but your ways are not mine, and they’re 
not God’s; and the short and the long of it is just 
that we must twine.” 


* Part. 


157 


158 


KIDNAPPED 


“I will hardly twine from ye, David, without 
some kind of reason for the same,” said Alan, mighty 
gravely. “If ye ken anything against my reputa- 
tion, it’s the least thing that ye should do, for old 
acquaintance sake, to let me hear the name of it; 
and if ye have only taken a distaste to my society, 
it will be proper for me to judge if I’m insulted.” 

“Alan,” said I, “what is the sense of this? Ye 
ken very well yon Campbell-man lies in his blood 
upon the road.” 

He was silent for a little; then says he, “Did 
ever ye hear tell of the story of the Man and the 
Good People?” — by which he meant the fairies. 

“No,” said I, “nor do I want to hear it.” 

“With your permission, Mr. Balfour, I will tell 
it you, whatever,” says Alan. “The man, ye 
should ken, was cast upon a rock in the sea, where 
it appears the Good People were in use to come 
and rest as they went through to Ireland. The 
name of this rock is called the Skerryvore, and it’s 
not far from where we suffered shipwreck. Well, 
it seems the man cried so sore, if he could just see 
his little bairn before he died! that at last the 
king of the Good People took peety upon him, and 
sent one flying that brought back the bairn in a 
poke * and laid it down beside the man where he 
lay sleeping. So when the man woke, there was a 
poke beside him and something into the inside of 
it that moved. Well, it seems he was one of these 
gentry that think aye the worst of things; and for 
greater security, he stuck his dirk throughout that 
poke before he opened it, and there was his bairn 
dead. I am thinking to myself, Mr. Balfour, that 
you and the man are very much alike.” 

♦Bag. 


KIDNAPPED 


I S9 


“Do you mean you had no hand in it?” cried I, 
sitting up. 

“I will tell you first of all, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, 
as one friend to another,” said Alan, “that if I were 
going to kill a gentleman, it would not be in my 
own country, to bring trouble on my clan; and I 
would not go wanting sword and gun, and with a 
long fishing-rod upon my back.” 

“Well,” said I, “that’s true!” 

“And now,” continued Alan, taking out his dirk 
and laying his hand upon it in a certain manner, 
“I swear upon the Holy Iron I had neither art nor 
part, act nor thought in it.” 

“I thank God for that,” cried I, and offered him 
my hand. 

He did not appear to see it. 

“And here is a great deal of work about a Camp- 
bell!” said he. “They are not so scarce, that I 
ken!” 

“At least,” said I, “you cannot justly blame me, 
for you know very well what you told me in the brig. 
But the temptation and the act are different, I thank 
God again for that. We may all be tempted; but 
to take a life in cold blood, Alan!” And I could 
say no more for the moment. “And do you know 
who did it?” I added. “Do you know that 
man in the black coat?” 

“I have nae clear mind about his coat,” said Alan, 
cunningly; “ but it sticks in my head that it was blue.” 

“Blue or black, did ye know him?” said I. 

“I couldnae just conscientiously swear to him,” 
says Alan. “He gaed very close by me, to be sure, 
but it’s a strange thing that I should just have been 
tying my brogues.” 

“ Can you swear that you don’t know him, Alan ? ” 


160 KIDNAPPED 

I cried, half angered, half in a mind to laugh at his 
evasions. 

“Not yet,” says he; “but I’ve a grand memory 
for forgetting, David.” 

“And yet there was one thing I saw clearly,” 
said I; “and that was, that you exposed yourself 
and me to draw the soldiers.” 

“It’s very likely,” said Alan; “and so would any 
gentleman. You and me were innocent of that 
transaction.” 

“The better reason, since we were falsely sus- 
pected, that we should get clear,” I cried. “The 
innocent should surely come before the guilty.” 

“Why, David,” said he, “the innocent have aye 
a chance to get assoiled in court; but for the lad 
that shot the bullet, I think the best place for him 
will be the heather. Them that havenae dipped 
their hands in any little difficulty, should be very 
mindful of the case of them that have. And that 
is the good Christianity. For it was the other way 
round about, and the lad whom I couldnae just 
clearly see had been in our shoes, and we in his (as 
might very well have been), I think we would be a 
good deal obliged to him oursel’s if he would draw 
the soldiers.” 

When it came to this, I gave Alan up. But he 
looked so innocent all the time, and was in such 
clear good faith in what he said, and so ready to 
sacrifice himself for what he deemed his duty, that 
my mouth was closed. Mr. Henderland’s words 
came back to me: that we ourselves might take a 
lesson by these wild Highlanders. Well, here I 
had taken mine. Alan’s morals were all tail-first; 
but he was ready to give his life for them, such as 
they were. 


KIDNAPPED 


161 

“Alan,” said I, “I’ll not say it’s the good Chris- 
tianity as I understand it, but it’s good enough. And 
here I offer ye my hand for the second time.” 

Whereupon he gave me both of his, saying surely 
I had cast a spell upon him, for he could forgive me 
anything. Then he grew very grave, and said we 
had not much time to throw away, but must both 
flee that country: he, because he was a deserter, 
and the whole of Appin would now be searched like 
a chamber, and every one obliged to give a good 
account of himself; and I, because I was certainly 
involved in the murder. 

“O!” says I, willing to give him a little lesson, 
“I have no fear of the justice of my country.” 

“As if this was your country!” said he. “Or as 
if ye would be tried here, in a country of Stewarts!” 

“It’s all Scotland,” said I. 

“Man, I whiles wonder at ye,” said Alan. “This 
is a Campbell that’s been killed. Well, it’ll be 
tried in Inverara, the Campbells’ head place; with 
fifteen Campbells in the jury-box, and the biggest 
Campbell of all (and that’s the duke) sitting cock- 
ing on the bench. Justice, David? The same 
justice, by all the world, as Glenure found a while 
ago at the roadside.” 

This frighted me a little, I confess, and would 
have frighted me more if I had known how nearly 
exact were Alan’s predictions; indeed it was but 
in one point that he exaggerated, there being but 
eleven Campbells on the jury; though as the other 
four were equally in the duke’s dependence, it mat- 
tered less than might appear. Still I cried out that 
he was unjust to the Duke of Argyle, who (for all he 
was a Whig) was yet a wise and honest nobleman. 

“Hoot!” said Alan, “the man’s a Whig, nae 


162 


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doubt; but I would never deny he was a good 
chieftain to his clan. And what would the clan 
think if there was a Campbell shot, and naebody 
hanged, and their own chief the justice general? 
But I have often observed,” says Alan, “that you 
Low country bodies have no clear idea of what’s 
right and wrong.” 

At this I did at last laugh out aloud; when to my 
surprise, Alan joined in and laughed as merrily as 
myself. 

“Na, na,” said he, “we’re in the Hielands, David; 
and when I tell ye to run, take my word and run. 
Nae doubt it’s a hard thing to skulk, and starve in the 
heather, but it’s harder yet to lie shackled in a red- 
coat prison.” 

I asked him whither we should flee; and as he 
told me “to the Lowlands,” I was a little better in- 
clined to go with him; for indeed I was growing im- 
patient to get back and have the upper hand of my 
uncle. Besides Alan made so sure there would be 
no question of justice in the matter, that I began to 
be afraid he might be right. Of all deaths, I would 
truly like least to die by the gallows; and the pic- 
ture of that uncanny instrument came into my 
head with extraordinary clearness (as I had once 
seen it engraved at the top of a peddler’s ballad) and 
took away my appetite for courts of justice. 

“I’ll chance it, Alan,” said I. “I’ll go with 
you.” 

“But mind you,” said Alan, “it’s no small thing. 
Ye maun lie bare and hard, and brook many an 
empty belly. Your bed shall be the moorcock’s, 
and your life shall be like the hunted deer’s, and ye 
shall sleep with your hand upon your weapon. Ay, 
man, ye shall taigle many a weary foot, or we get 


KIDNAPPED 


163 


clear! I tell ye this at the start, for it’s a life that I 
ken well. But if ye ask what other chance ye have, 
I answer: Nane. Either take to the heather 
with me, or else hang.” 

“And that’s a choice very easily made,” said I; 
and we shook hands upon it. 

“And now let’s take another keek at the red- 
coats,” says Alan, and he led me to the northeastern 
fringe of the wood. 

Looking out between the trees, we could see a 
great side of mountain, running down exceedingly 
steep into the waters of the loch. It was a rough 
part, all hanging stone, and heather, and bit scrags 
of birch wood; and away at the far end toward 
Balachulish, little wee red soldiers were dipping up 
and down over hill and howe, and growing smaller 
every minute. There was no cheering now, for I 
think they had other uses for what breath was left 
them; but they still stuck to the trail, and doubtless 
thought that we were close in front of them. 

Alan watched them, smiling to himself. 

“Ay,” said he, “they’ll be gey weary before they’ve 
got to the end of that employ! And so you and me, 
David, can sit down and eat a bite, and breathe a 
bit longer, and take a dram from my bottle. Then 
we’ll strike for Aucharn, the house of my kinsman, 
James of the Glens, where I must get my clothes, 
and my arms, and money to carry us along; and 
then, David, we’ll cry ‘Forth, Fortune!’ and take 
a cast among the heather.” 

So we sat again and ate and drank, in a place 
whence we could see the sun going down into a field 
of great, wild and houseless mountains, such as I 
was now condemned to wander in with my com- 
panion. Partly as we so sat, and partly afterward 


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on the way to Aucharn, each of ns narrated his ad- 
ventures; and I shall here set down so much of 
Alan’s as seems either curious or needful. 

It appears he ran to the bulwarks as soon as the 
wave was passed; saw me, and lost me, and saw 
me again, as I tumbled in the roost: and at last had 
one glimpse of me clinging on the yard. It was 
this that put him in some hope I would maybe get 
to land after all, and made him leave these clues and 
messages which had brought me (for my sins) to 
that unlucky country of Appin. 

In the meanwhile, those still on the brig had got 
the skiff launched, and one or two were on board 
of her already, when there came a second wave 
greater than the first, and heaved the brig out of 
her place, and would certainly have sent her to the 
bottom, had she not struck and caught on some 
projection of the reef. When she had struck first, 
it had been bows-on, so that the stern had hitherto 
been lowest. But now her stern was thrown in the 
air, and the bows plunged under the sea; and with 
that, the water began to pour into the forescuttle 
like the pouring of a mill-dam. 

It took the color out of Alan’s face, even to tell 
what followed. For there were still two men lying 
impotent in their bunks; and these, seeing the water 
pour in and thinking the ship had foundered, begun 
to cry out aloud, and that with such harrowing cries 
that all who were on deck tumbled one after another 
into the skiff and fell to their oars. They were not 
two hundred yards away, when there came a third 
great sea; and at that the brig lifted clean over the 
reef; her canvas filled for a moment, and she seemed 
to sail in chase of them, but settling all the while; 
and presently she drew down and down, as if a 


KIDNAPPED 165 

hand was drawing her; and the sea closed over the 
Covenant of Dysart. 

Never a word they spoke as they pulled ashore, 
being stunned with the horror of that screaming; 
but they had scarce set foot upon the beach when 
Hoseason woke up, as if out of a muse, and bade 
them lay hands upon Alan. They hung back in- 
deed, having little taste for the employment; but 
Hoseason was like a fiend; crying that Alan was 
alone, that he had a great sum about him, that 
he had been the means of losing the brig and drown- 
ing all their comrades, and that here was both re- 
venge and wealth upon a single cast. It was seven 
against one; in that part of the shore there was 
no rock that Alan could set his back to; and the 
sailors began to spread out and come behind him. 

“And then,” said Alan, “the little man with the 
redhead — I have n^e mind of the name that he is 
called.” 

“Ay,” said Alan, “Riach! Well, it was him that 
took up the clubs for me, asked the men if they 
werenae feared of a judgment, and says he, ‘Dod, I’ll 
put my back to the Hielandman’s mysel’.’ That’s 
none such an entirely bad little man, yon little man 
with the redhead,” said Alan. “He has some 
spunks of decency.” 

“Well,” said I, “he was kind to me in his way.” 

“And so he was to Alan,” said he; “and by my 
troth, I found his way a very good one! But ye 
see, David, the loss of the ship and the cries of these 
poor lads sat very ill upon the man; and I’m think- 
ing that would be the cause of it.” 

“Well, I would think so,” said I; “for he was as 
keen as any of the rest at the beginning. But how 
did Hoseason take it?” 


KIDNAPPED 


1 66 

“It sticks in my mind that he would take it very 
ill,” says Alan. “But the little man cried to me 
to run, and indeed I thought it was a good observe, 
and ran. The last that I saw they were all in a knot 
upon the beach, like folk that were not agreeing 
very well together.” 

“What do you mean by that?” said I. 

“Well, the fists were going,” said Alan; “and I 
saw one man go down like a pair of breeks. But I 
thought it would be better no to wait. Ye see there’s 
a strip of Campbells in that end of Mull, which is no 
good company for a gentleman like me. If it hadnae 
been for that I would have waited and looked for 
ye mysel’, let alone giving a hand to the little man.” 
(It was droll how Alan dwelt on Mr. Riach’s stature, 
for to say the truth, the one was not much smaller 
than the other.) “So,” says he, continuing, “I 
set my best foot forward, and whenever I met in with 
any one I cried out there was a wreck ashore. Man, 
they didnae stop to fash with me! Ye should have 
seen them linking for the beach ! And when they 
got there they found they had had the pleasure of 
a run, which is aye good for a Campbell. I’m think- 
ing it was a judgment on the clan that the brig went 
down in the lump and didnae break. But it was 
a very unlucky thing for you, that same; for if any 
wreck had come ashore they would have hunted 
high and low, and would soon have found ye.” 


/ 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE HOUSE OF FEAR 

Night fell as we were walking, and the clouds, 
which had broken up in the afternoon, settled in 
and thickened, so that it fell, for the season of the 
year, extremely dark. The way we went was over 
rough mountain sides; and though Alan pushed 
on with an assured manner, I could by no means 
see how he directed himself. 

At last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came 
to the top of a brae, and saw lights below us. It 
seemed a house door stood open and let out a beam 
of fire and candle light; and all around the house 
and steading five or six persons were moving hurriedly 
about, each carrying a lighted brand. 

“James must have tint his wits,” said Alan. “If 
this was the soldiers instead of you and me he would 
be in a bonny mess. But I daresay he’ll have a 
sentry on the road, and he would ken well enough 
no soldiers would find the way that we came.” 

Hereupon he whistled three times, in a particular 
manner. It was strange to see how, at the first 
sound of it, all the moving torches came to a stand 
as if the bearers were affrighted, and how, at the 
third, the bustle began again as before. 

Having thus set folks’ minds at rest, we came 
down the brae, and were met at the yard gate (for 
this place was like a well-doing farm) by a tall, 

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KIDNAPPED 


handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to 
Alan in the Gaelic. 

“ James Stewart,” said Alan, “I will ask ye to 
speak in Scotch, for here is a young gentleman with 
me that has nane of the other. This is him,” he 
added, putting his arm through mine, “a young 
gentleman of the Lowlands, and a laird in his coun- 
try too, but I am thinking it will be the better for 
his health if we give his name the go-by.” 

James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and 
greeted me courteously enough; the next he had 
turned to Alan. 

“This has been a dreadful accident,” he cried. 
“It will bring trouble on the country.” And he 
wrung his hands. 

“Hoots!” said Alan, “ye must take the sour with 
the sweet, man. Colin Roy is dead, and be thankful 
for that!” 

“Ay,” said James, “and by my troth, I wish he 
was alive again! It’s all very fine to blow and boast 
beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and who’s 
to bear the wyte * of it ? The accident fell out in 
Appin — mind ye that, Alan; it’s Appin that must 
pay; and I am a man that has a family.” 

While this was going on, I looked about me at 
the servants. Some were on ladders, digging in the 
thatch of the house or the farm buildings, from which 
they brought shotguns, swords, and different weapons 
of war; others carried them away; and by the sound 
of mattock blows from somewhere further down 
the brae, I suppose they buried them. Though they 
were all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order 
in their efforts; men struggled together for the same 
gun and ran into each other with their burning 

* Blame. 


KIDNAPPED 


169 


torches, and James was continually turning about 
from his talk with Alan, to cry out orders which 
were apparently never understood. The faces 
in the torchlight were like those of people overborne 
with hurry and panic; and, though none spoke 
above his breath, their speech sounded both anxious 
and angry. 

It was about this time that a lassie came out of 
the house carrying a pack or bundle; and it has 
often made me smile to think how Alan’s instinct 
awoke at the mere sight of it. 

“What’s that the lassie has?” he asked. 

“We’re just setting the house in order, Alan,” said 
James, in his frightened and somewhat fawning way. 
“They’ll search Appin with candles, and we must 
have all things straight. We’re digging the bit 
guns and swords into the moss, ye see; and these, 
I am thinking, will be your ain French clothes.” 

“Bury my French clothes!” cried Alan. “Troth 
no!” And he laid hold upon the packet and retired 
into the barn to shift himself, recommending me in 
the meanwhile to his kinsman. 

James carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and 
sat down with me at table, smiling and talking at 
first in a very hospitable manner. But presently 
the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and 
biting his fingers; only remembered me from time 
to time; and then gave me but a word or two and 
a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His 
wife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her 
hands; his eldest son was crouched upon the floor, 
running over a great mass of papers and now and 
again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter 
end; all the while a servant lass with a red face 
was rummaging about the room, in a blind hurry of 


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fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now 
and again, one of the men would thrust in his face 
from the yard and cry for orders. 

At last James could keep his seat no longer, and 
begged my permission to be so unmannerly as walk 
about. “I am but poor company altogether, sir,” 
says he, “but I can think of nothing but this dread- 
ful accident, and the trouble it is like to bring upon 
quite innocent persons.” 

A little after he observed his son burning a paper, 
which he thought should have been kept; and at 
that his excitement burst out so that it was painful 
to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly. 

“Are you gone gyte?” * he cried. “Do you wish 
to hang your father?’' and forgetful of my presence, 
carried on at him a long time together in the Gaelic, 
the young man answering nothing; only the wife, 
at the name of hanging, throwing her apron over her 
face and sobbing out louder than before. 

This was all wretched for a stranger like myself to 
hear and see; and I was right glad when Alan re- 
turned, looking like himself in his fine French clothes, 
though (to be sure) they were now grown almost 
too battered and withered to deserve that name. I 
was then taken out in my turn by another of the 
sons, and given that change of clothing (of which I 
had stood so long in need), and a pair of Highland 
brogues, made of deer-leather, rather strange at 
first, but after a little practice very easy to the feet. 

By the time I came back, Alan must have told his 
story; for it seemed understood that I was to fly 
with him, and they were all busy upon our equip- 
ment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, 
though I professed my inability to use the former; 

♦Mad. 


KIDNAPPED 


171 


and with these, and some ammunition, a bag of 
oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French 
brandy, we were ready for the heather. Money, 
indeed, was lacking. I had about two guineas 
left; Alan’s belt having been dispatched by’ another 
hand, that trusty messenger had no more than 
seventeen-pence to his whole fortune; and as for 
James, it appears he had brought himself so low 
with journeys to Edinburgh and legal expenses on 
behalf of the tenants, that he could only scrape to- 
gether three and fivepence halfpenny; the most 
of it in coppers. 

“This’ll no do,” said Alan. 

“Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,” 
said James, “and get word sent to me. Ye see, 
ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan. 
This is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. 
They’re sure to get wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and 
by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the wyte of this 
day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me 
that am your near kinsman and harbored ye while 
ye were in the country. And if it comes on me 

” he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white 

face. “It would be a painful thing for our friends 
if I was to hang,” said he. 

“It would be an ill day for Appin,” says Alan. 

“It’s a day that sticks in my throat,” said James. 
“O man, man, man — Alan! you and me have 
spoken like two fools!” he cried, striking his hand 
upon the wall so that the house rang again. 

“Well, and that’s true, too,” said Alan; “and my 
friend from the Lowlands here” (nodding at me) 
“gave me a good word upon that head, if I would 
only have listened to him.” 

“But see here,” said James, returning. to his former 


172 


KIDNAPPED 


manner, “if they lay me by the heels, Alan, it’s 
then that you’ll be needing the money; for with 
all that I have said, and that you have said, it will 
look very black against the two of us; do ye mark 
that? Well, follow me out, and ye’ll see that I’ll 
have to get a paper out against ye mysel’; I’ll have 
to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I ! It’s a sore thing 
to do between such near friends; but if I get the 
dirdum * of this dreadful accident, I’ll have to 
fend for myself, man. Do you see that?” 

He spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan 
by the breast of the coat. 

“Ay,” said Alan. “I see that.” 

“And ye’ll have to be clear of the country, Alan 
— ay, and clear of Scotland — you and your friend 
from the Lowlands, too. For I’ll have to paper your 
friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan — 
say that ye see that!” 

I thought Alan flushed a bit. “This is unco 
hard on me that brought him here, James,” said he, 
throwing his head back. “It’s like making me a 
traitor!” 

“Now, Alan, man!” cried James, “look things 
in the face! He’ll be papered anyway; Mungo 
Campbefl’ll be sure to paper him; what matters if 
I paper him, too? And then, Alan, I am a man 
that has a family.” And then, after a little pause 
on both sides: “And, Alan, it’ll be a jury of Camp- 
bells,” said he. 

“There’s one thing,” said Alan, musingly, “that 
naebody kens his name.” 

“Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There’s my hand 
on that,” cried James, for all the world as if he had 
really known my name and was foregoing some ad- 
* Blame. 


KIDNAPPED 


173 


vantage. “But just the habit he was in, and what 
he looked like, and his age, and the like ? I couldnae 
well do less.” 

“I wonder at your father’s son,” cried Alan, 
sternly. “Would ye sell the lad with a gift? would 
ye change his clothes and then betray him?” 

“No, no, Alan,” said James. “No, no: the 
habit he took off — the habit Mungo saw him in. 
But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he 
was clutching at every straw; and all the time, I 
daresay, saw the faces of his hereditary foes on the 
bench and in the jury-box, and the gallows in the 
backgronud. 

“Well, sir,” says Alan, turning to me, “what say 
ye to that? Ye are here under the safeguard of 
my honor; and it’s my part to see nothing done 
but what shall please you.” 

“I have but one word to say,” said I; “for to 
all this dispute I am a perfect stranger. But the 
plain common sense is to set the blame where it 
belongs, and that is on the man that fired the shot. 
Paper him, as ye call it, set the hunt on him; and 
let honest, innocent folk show their faces in safety.” 

But at this both Alan and James cried out in hor- 
ror; bidding me hold my tongue, for that was not 
to be thought of, and asking me “What the Camer- 
ons would think?” (which again confirmed me, 
it must have been a Cameron from Mamore that 
did the act) and if I did not see that the lad might be 
caught ? “Ye havenae surely thought of that ? ” said 
they, with such innocent earnestness, that my hands 
dropped at my side, and I despaired of argument. 

“Very well, then,” said I, “paper me, if you 
please, paper Alan, paper King George! We’re 
all three innocent, and that seems to be what’s 


174 


KIDNAPPED 


wanted! But at least, sir,” said I to James, recover- 
ing from my little fit of annoyance, “I am Alan’s 
friend, and if I can be helpful to friends of his, I 
will not stumble at the risk.” 

I thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, 
for I saw Alan troubled; and besides (thinks I to 
myself) as soon as my back is turned, they will paper 
me, as they call it, whether I consent or not. But 
in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said 
the words, than Mrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, 
came running over to us, and wept first upon my 
neck and then on Alan’s, blessing God for our good- 
ness to her family. 

“As for you, Alan, it was no more than your 
bounden duty,” she said. But for this lad that has 
come here and seen us at our worst, and seen the 
goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights 
should give his commands like any king — as for 
you, my lad,” she says, “my heart is wae not to have 
your name, but I have your face; and as long as my 
heart beats under my bosom, I will keep it, and 
think of it, and bless it.” And with that she kissed 
me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that I 
stood abashed. 

“Hoot, hoot,” said Alan, looking mighty silly. 
“The day comes unco soon in this month of July; 
and to-morrow there’ll be a fine to-do in Appin, a 
fine riding of dragoons, and crying of ‘Cruachan!’ * 
and running of red-coats; and it behooves you and 
me to be the sooner gone.” 

Thereupon we said farewell, and set out again, 
bending somewhat eastward, in a fine mild dark 
night, and over much the same broken country as 
before. 

* The rallying word of the Campbells. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS 

Sometimes we walked, sometimes ran; and as 
it drew on to morning, walked ever the less and ran 
the more. Though, upon its face, that country- 
appeared to be a desert, yet there were huts and 
houses of the people, of which we must have passed 
more than twenty, hidden in quiet places of the 
hills. When we came to one of these, Alan would 
leave me in the way, and go himself and rap upon 
the side of the house and speak awhile at the win- 
dow with some sleeper awakened. This was to 
pass the news; which, in that country, was so much 
of a duty that Alan must pause to attend to it even 
while fleeing for his life; and so well attended to 
by others, that in more than half of the houses where 
we called, they had heard already of the murder. 
In the others, as well as I could make out (standing 
back at a distance and hearing a strange tongue) 
the news was received with more of consternation 
than surprise. 

For all our hurry, day began to come in while 
we were still far from any shelter. It found us in a 
prodigious valley, strewn with rocks and where 
ran a foaming river. Wild mountains stood around 
it; there grew there neither grass nor trees; and I 
have sometimes thought since then, that it may have 
been the valley called Glencoe, where the massacre 

i75 


176 


KIDNAPPED 


was in the time of King William. ‘But for the 
details of our itinerary, I am all to seek; our way 
lying now by short cuts, now by great detours; 
our pace being so hurried; our time of journeying 
usually by night; and the names of such places as 
I asked and heard being in the Gaelic tongue and the 
more easily forgotten. 

The first peep of morning, then, showed us this 
horrible place, and I could see Alan knit his brow. 

“This is no fit place for you and me,” he said. 
“This is a place they’re bound to watch.” 

And with that he ran harder than ever down to 
the water-side, in a part where the river was split 
in two among three rocks. It went through with a 
horrid thundering that made my belly quake; and 
there hung over the lynn a little mist of spray. Alan 
looked neither to the right nor to the left, but jumped 
clean upon the middle rock and fell there on his 
hands and knees to check himself, for that rock was 
small and he might have pitched over on the far 
side. I had scarce time to measure the distance 
or to understand the peril before I had followed 
him, and he had caught and stopped me. 

So there we stood, side by side upon a small rock 
slippery with spray, a far broader leap in front of 
us, and the river dinning upon all sides. When I 
saw where I was there came on me a deadly sick- 
ness of fear, and I put my hand over my eyes. Alan 
took me and shook me; I saw he was speaking, 
but the roaring of the falls and the trouble of my 
mind prevented me from hearing; only I saw his 
face was red with anger, and that he stamped upon 
the rock. The same look showed me the water 
raging by and the mist hanging in the air; and with 
that, I covered my eyes again and shuddered. 


KIDNAPPED 


177 


The next minute Alan had set the brandy bottle 
to my lips, and forced me to drink about a gill, 
which sent the blood into my head again. Then, 
putting his hands to his mouth and his mouth to my 
ear, he shouted, “Hang or drown!” and turning 
his back upon me, leaped over the farther branch 
of the stream, and landed safe. 

I was now alone upon the rock, which gave me 
the more room; the brandy was singing in my 
ears; I had this good example fresh before me, 
and just wit enough to see that if I did not leap 
at once, I should never leap at all. I bent low on 
my knees and flung myself forth, with that kind of 
anger of despair that has sometimes stood me in stead 
of courage. Sure enough, it was but my hands that 
reached the full length; these slipped, caught 
again, slipped again; and I was sliddering back 
into the lynn, when Alan seized me, first by the 
hair, then by the collar, and with a great strain 
dragged me into safety. 

Never a word he said, but set off running again 
for his life, and I must stagger to my feet and run 
after him. I had been weary before, but now I 
was sick and bruised, and partly drunken with the 
brandy; I kept stumbling as I ran, I had a stitch 
that came near to overmaster me; and when at 
last Alan paused under a great rock that stood there 
among a number of others, it was none too soon 
for David Balfour. 

A great rock, I have said; but by rights it was 
two rocks leaning together at the top, both some 
twenty feet high, and at the first sight inaccessible. 
Even Alan (though you may say he had as good 
as four hands) failed twice in an attempt to climb 
them; and it was only at the third trial, and then 


i 7 8 


KIDNAPPED 


by standing on my shoulders and leaping up with 
such force as I thought must have broken my collar- 
bone, that he secured a lodgment. Once there, he 
let down his leathern girdle; and with the aid of 
that, and a pair of shallow footholds in the rock, I 
scrambled up beside him. 

Then I saw why we had come there; for the two 
rocks, both being somewhat hollow on the top and 
sloping one to the other, made a kind of dish or 
saucer, where as many as three or four men might 
have lain hidden. 

All this while, Alan had not said a word, and 
had run and climbed with such a savage, silent frenzy 
of hurry, that I knew he was in mortal fear of some 
miscarriage. Even now we were on the rock he 
said nothing, nor so much as relaxed the frowning 
look upon his face; but clapped flat down, and 
keeping only one eye above the edge of our place 
of shelter, scouted all round the compass. The 
dawn had come quite clear; we could see the 
stony sides of the valley, and its bottom, which was 
bestrewed with rocks, and the river, which went 
from one side to another, and made white falls; but 
nowhere the smoke of a house, nor any liying crea- 
ture but some eagles screaming round a cliff. 

Then at last Alan smiled. 

“Ay,” said he, “now we have a chance”; and 
then looking at me with amusement, “Ye’re no very 
gleg * at the jumping,” said he. 

At this I suppose I colored with mortification, 
for he added at once, “Hoots! small blame to ye! 
To be feared of a thing and yet to do it, is what 
makes the prettiest kind of a man. And then there 
was water there, and water’s a thing that dauntons 

♦Brisk. 


KIDNAPPED 


179 


even me. No, no,” said Alan, “it’s no you that’s 
to blame, it’s me.” 

I asked him why. 

“Why,” said he, “I have proved myself a gomeral 
this night. For first of all I take a wrong road, 
and that in my own country of Appin; so that the 
day has caught us where we should never have 
been; and thanks to that, we lie here in some 
danger and mair discomfort. And next (which 
is the worst of the two, for a man that has been so 
much among the heather as myself) I have come 
wanting a water-bottle, and here we lie for a long 
summer’s day with naething but neat spirit. Ye 
may think that a small matter; but before it comes 
night, David, ye’ll give me news of it.” 

I was anxious to redeem my character, and offered, 
if he would pour out the brandy, to run down and 
fill the bottle at the river. 

“I wouldnae waste the good spirit either,” says 
he. “It’s been a good friend to you this night, 
or in my poor opinion, ye would still be cocking on 
yon stone. And what’s mair,” says he, “ye may 
have observed (you that’s a man of so much pene- 
tration) that Alan Breck Stewart was perhaps 
walking quicker than his ordinar’.” 

“You!” I cried, “you were running fit to burst.” 

“Was I so?” said he. “Well, then, ye may de- 
pend upon it, there was nae time to be lost. And 
now here is enough said; gang you to your sleep, 
lad, and I’ll watch.” 

Accordingly, I lay down to sleep; a little peaty 
earth had. rifted in between the top of the two rocks, 
and some bracken grew there, to be a bed to me; 
the last thing I heard was still the crying of the 
eagles. 


i8o 


KIDNAPPED 


I daresay it would be nine in the morning when I 
was roughly awakened, and found Alan’s hand 
pressed upon my mouth. 

“Wheest!” he whispered. “Ye were snoring.” 

“Well,” said I, surprised at his anxious and dark 
face, “and why not?” 

He peered over the edge of the rock, and signed 
to me to do the like. 

It was now high day, cloudless, and very hot. 
The valley was as clear as in a picture. About 
half a mile up the water was a camp of red-coats; 
a big fire blazed in their midst, at which some were 
cooking; and near by, on the top of a rock about 
as high as ours, there stood a sentry with the sun 
sparkling on his arms. All the way down along the 
riverside were posted other sentries; here near to- 
gether, there widelier scattered; some planted like 
the first, on places of command, some on the ground 
level, and marching and counter-marching, so as 
to meet half way. Higher up the glen, where the 
ground was more open, the chain of posts was con- 
tinued by horse-soldiers, whom we could see in the 
distance riding to and fro. Lower down, the in- 
fantry continued; but as the stream was suddenly 
swelled by the confluence of a considerable burn 
they were more widely set, and only watched the 
fords and stepping-stones. 

I took but one look at them and ducked again into 
my place. It was strange indeed to see this valley, 
which had lain so solitary in the hour of dawn, 
bristling with arms and dotted with red-coats and 
breeches. 

“Ye see,” said Alan, “this was what I was afraid 
of, Davie; that they would watch the burnside. 
They began to come in about two hours ago, and, 


KIDNAPPED 181 

man ! but ye’re a grand hand at the sleeping ! We’re 
in a narrow place. If they get up the sides of the 
hill, they could easy spy us with a glass; but if 
they’ll only keep in the foot of the valley, we’ll do 
yet. The posts are thinner down the water; and 
come night, we’ll try our hand at getting by them.” 

“And what are we to do till night?” I asked. 

“Lie here,” says he, “and birstle.” 

That one good Scotch word, birstle, was indeed 
the most of the story of the day that we had now to 
pass. You are to remember that we lay on the 
bare top of a rock, like scones upon a girdle; the 
sun beat upon us cruelly; the rock grew so heated, 
a man could scarce endure the touch of it; and the 
little patch of earth and fern, which kept cooler, 
was only large enough for one at a time. We took 
turn about to lie on the naked rock, which was in- 
deed like the position of that saint that was martyred 
on a gridiron; and it ran in my mind how strange 
it was that, in the same climate and at only a few 
days’ distance, I should have suffered so cruelly, 
first from cold upon my island, and now from heat 
upon this rock. 

All the while we had no water, only raw brandy for 
a drink, which was worse than nothing; but we 
kept the bottle as cool as we could, burying it in the 
earth, and got some relief by bathing our breasts 
and temples. 

The soldiers kept stirring all day in the bottom 
of the valley, now changing guard, now in patrolling 
parties hunting among the rocks. These lay round 
in so great a number, that to look for men among 
them was like looking for a needle in a bottle of 
hay; and being so hopeless a task, it was gone 
about with the less care. Yet we could see the sol- 


lS>2 


KIDNAPPED 


diers pike their bayonets among the heather, which 
sent a cold thrill into my vitals; and they would 
sometimes hang about our rock, so that we scarce 
dared to breathe. 

It was in this way that I first heard the right Eng- 
lish speech; one fellow as he went by actually clap- 
ping his hand upon the sunny face of the rock on 
which we lay, and plucking it off again with an 
oath. 

“I tell you it’s ’ot,” says he; and I was amazed 
at the clipping tones and the odd sing-song in which 
he spoke, and no less at that strange trick of dropping 
out the letter h. To be sure, I had heard Ransome; 
but he had taken his ways from all sorts of people, 
and spoke so imperfectly at the best, that I set 
down the most of it to childishness. My surprise 
was all the greater to hear that manner of speaking 
in the mouth of a grown man; and indeed I have 
never grown used with it; nor yet altogether with 
the English grammar, as perhaps a very critical eye 
might here and there spy out even in these memoirs. 

The tediousness and pain of these hours upon the 
rocks grew only the greater as the day went on; the 
rock getting still the hotter and the sun fiercer. 
There were giddiness, and sickness, and sharp pangs 
like rheumatism, to be supported. I minded then, 
and have often minded since, on the lines in our 
Scotch Psalm: — 

“The moon by night thee shall not smite, 

Nor yet the sun by day”; 

and indeed it was only by God’s blessing that we 
were neither of us sun-smitten. 

At last, about two, it was beyond men’s bearing, 
and there was now temptation to resist, as well as 


KIDNAPPED 


183 

pain to thole. For the sun being now got a little 
into the west, there came a patch of shade on the 
east side of our rock, which was the side sheltered 
from the soldiers. 

“As well one death as another,” said Alan, and 
slipped over the edge and dropped on the ground 
on the shadowy side. 

I followed him at once, and instantly fell all my 
length, so weak was I and so giddy with that long 
exposure. Here, then, we lay for an hour or two, 
aching from head to foot, as weak as water, and lying 
quite naked to the eye of any soldier who should have 
strolled that way. None came, however, all pass- 
ing by on the other side; so that our rock continued 
to be our shield even in this new position. 

Presently we began again to get a little strength; 
and as the soldiers were now lying closer along the 
riverside, Alan proposed that we should try a start. 
I was by this time afraid of but one thing in the 
world; and that was to be set back upon the rock; 
anything else was welcome to me; so we got our- 
selves at once in marching order, and began to slip 
from rock to rock one after the other, now crawling 
flat on our bellies in the shade, now making a 
run for it, heart in mouth. 

The soldiers, having searched this side of the 
valley after a fashion, and being perhaps some- 
what sleepy with the sultriness of the afternoon, 
had now laid by much of their vigilance, and stood 
dozing at their posts, or only kept a lookout along 
the banks of the river; so that in this way, keeping 
down the valley and at the same time toward the 
mountains, we drew steadily, away from their neigh- 
borhood. But the business was the most wearing 
I had ever taken part in. A man had need of a 


184 


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hundred eyes in every part of him, to keep concealed 
in that uneven country and within cry of so many 
and scattered sentries. When we must pass an 
open place, quickness was not all, but a swift judg- 
ment not only of the lay of the whole country, but 
of the solidity of every stone on which we must set 
foot; for the afternoon was now fallen so breathless 
that the rolling of a pebble sounded abroad like a 
pistol shot, and would start the echo calling among 
the hills and cliffs. 

By sundown, we had made some distance, even 
by our slow rate of progress, though to be sure the 
sentry on the rock was still plainly in our view. 
But now we came on something that put all fears 
out of season; and that was a deep, rushing burn 
that tore down, in that part, to join the glen-river. 
At the sight of this, we cast ourselves on the ground 
and plunged head and soldiers in the water; and I 
cannot tell which was the more pleasant, the great 
shock as the cool stream went over us, or the greed 
with which we drank of it. 

We lay there (for the banks hid us), drank again 
and again, bathed our chests, let our wrists trail 
in the running water till they ached with the chill; 
and at last, being wonderfully renewed, we got out 
the meal-bag and made drammach in the iron pan. 
This, though it is but cold water, mingled with oat- 
meal, yet makes a good enough dish for a hungry 
man; and where there are no means of making 
fire, or (as in our case) good reason for not making 
one, it is the chief stand-by of those who have taken 
to the heather. 

As soon as the shadow of the night had fallen, 
we set forth again, at first with the same caution, 
but presently with more boldness, standing our full 


KIDNAPPED 


185 

height and stepping out at a good pace of walking. 
The way was very intricate, lying up the steep sides 
of mountains and along the brows of cliffs; clouds 
had come in with the sunset, and the night was dark 
and cool; so that I walked without much fatigue, 
but in continual fear of falling and rolling down the 
mountains, and with no guess at our direction. 

The moon rose at last and found us still on the 
road; it was in its last quarter and was long beset 
with clouds; but after a while shone out, and showed 
me many dark heads of mountains, and was reflected 
far underneath us on the narrow arm of a sea-loch. 

At this sight we both paused: I struck with wonder 
to find myself so high and walking (as it seemed 
to me) upon clouds, Alan to make sure of his direc- 
tion. 

Seemingly he was well pleased, and he must cer- 
tainly have judged us out of ear-shot of all our ene- 
mies; for throughout the rest of our night-march, he 
beguiled the way with whistling of many tunes, 
warlike, merry, plaintive; reel tunes that made 
the foot go faster; tunes of my own south country 
that made me fain to be home from my adventures; 
and all these, on the great, dark, desert mountains, 
making company upon the way. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF 
OF CORRYNAKIEGH 

Early as days come in the beginning of July, it 
was still dark when we reached our destination, a 
cleft in the head of a great mountain, with a water 
running through the midst, and upon the one hand 
a shallow cave in a rock. Birches grew there in a 
thin, pretty wood, which a little further was changed 
into a wood of pines. The burn was full of trout; 
the wood of cushat-doves; on the opening side of 
the mountain beyond, whaups would be always 
whistling and ' cuckoos were plentiful. From the 
mouth of the cleft we looked down upon a part of 
Mamore, and on the sea-loch that divides that 
country from Appin ; and this from so great a height, 
as made it my continual wonder and pleasure to sit 
and behold them. 

The name of the cleft was the Heugh of Corry- 
nakiegh; and, although from its height and being 
so near upon the sea it was often beset with clouds, 
yet it was on the whole a pleasant place, and the 
five days we lived in it went happily. 

We slept in the cave, making our bed of heather 
bushes which we cut for that purpose, and covering 
ourselves with Alan’s great-coat. There was a 
low concealed place, in a turning of the glen, 
where we were so bold as to make fire; so that 
1 86 


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187 


we could warm ourselves when the clouds set in, 
and cook hot porridge, and grill the little trouts 
that we caught with our hands under the stones 
and overhanging banks of the burn. This was in- 
deed our chief pleasure and business; and not only 
to save our meal against worse times, but with a 
rivalry that much amused us, we spent a great part 
of our days at the waterside, stripped to the waist, 
and groping about or (as they say) guddling for 
these fish. The largest we got might have been 
three-quarters of a pound; but they were of good 
flesh and flavor, and when broiled upon the coals, 
lacked only a little salt to be delicious. 

In any by-time Alan must teach me to use my 
sword, for my ignorance had much distressed him; 
and I think besides, as I had sometimes the upper 
hand of him in the fishing, he was not sorry to turn 
to an exercise where he had so much the upper 
hand of me. He made it somewhat more of a pain 
than need have been, for he stormed at me through all 
the lessons in a very violent manner of scolding, and 
would push me so close that I made sure he must 
run me through the body. I was often tempted to 
turn tail, but held my ground for all that, and got 
some profit of my lessons; if it was but to stand on 
guard with an assured countenance, which is often 
all that is required. So, though I could never in 
the least please my master, I was not altogether 
displeased with myself. 

In the meanwhile, you are not to suppose that we 
neglected our chief business, which was to get away. 

“It will be many a long day,” Alan said to me on 
our first morning, “before the red-coats think upon 
seeking Corrynakiegh ; so now we must get word 
sent to James, and he must find the siller for us.” 


1 88 


KIDNAPPED 


“And how shall we send that word?” says I. 
“We are here in a desert place, which yet we dare 
not leave; and unless ye get the fowls of the air 
to be your messengers, I see not what we shall be able 
to do.” 

“Ay?” said Alan. “Ye’re a man of small con- 
trivance, David.” 

Thereupon he fell in a muse, looking in the embers 
of the fire; and presently, getting a piece of wood, 
he fashioned it in a cross, the four ends of which he 
blackened on the coals. Then he looked at me 
a little shyly. 

“Could ye lend me my button?” says he. “It 
seems a strange thing to ask a gift again, but I own 
I am laith to cut another.” 

I gave him the button; whereupon he strung it 
on a strip of his great-coat which he had used to 
bind the cross; and tying in a little sprig of birch 
and another of fir, he looked upon his work with 
satisfaction. 

“Now,” said he, “there is a little clachan” (what 
is called a hamlet in the English) “not very far from 
Corrynakiegh, and it has the name of Koalisnacoan. 
There, there are living many friends of mine whom 
I could trust with my life, and some that I am no 
just so sure of. Ye see, David, there will be money 
set upon our heads; James himsel’ is to set money 
on them; and as for the Campbells, they would 
never spare siller where there was a Stewart to be 
hurt. If it was otherwise, I would go down to 
Koalisnacoan whatever, and trust my life into these 
people’s hands as lightly as I would trust another 
with my glove.” 

“But being so?” said I. 

“Being so,” said he, “I would as lief they didnae 


KIDNAPPED 


189 


see me. There’s bad folk everywhere, and what’s 
far worse, weak ones. So when it comes dark 
again, I will steal down into that clachan, and set 
this that I have been making in the window of a 
good friend of mine, John Breck Maccoll, a bou- 
man * of Appin’s.” 

“With all my heart,” says I; “and if he finds it, 
what is he to think?” 

“Well,” says Alan, “I wish he was a man of more 
penetration, for by my troth I am afraid he will make 
little enough of it! But this is what I have in my 
mind. This cross is something in the nature of the 
cross-tarrie, or fiery cross, which is the signal of 
gathering in our clans; yet he will know well enough 
the clan is not to rise, for there it is standing in his 
window, and no word with it. So he will say to 
himseP, The clan is not to rise, but there is some- 
thing. Then he will see my button, and that was 
Duncan Stewart’s. And then he will say to him- 
sel’, The son of Duncan is in the heather and has 
need of me.” 

“Well,” said I, “it may be. But even supposing 
so, there is a good deal of heather between here and 
the Forth.” 

“And that is a very true word,” says Alan. “But 
then John Breck will see the sprig of birch and the 
sprig of pine; and he will say to himseP if he is a 
man of any penetration at all (which I misdoubt), 
Alan will be lying in a wood which is both of pines 
and birches. Then he will think to himseP, That 
is not so very rife hereabout; and then he will come 
and give us a look up in Corrynakiegh. And if 
he does not, David, the devil may fly away with 

* A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and shares 
with him the increase. 


KIDNAPPED 


190 

him, for what I care; for he will no be worth the 
salt to his porridge.” 

“Eh, man,” said I, drolling with him a little, 
“you’re very ingenious ! But would it not be simpler 
for you to write him a few words in black and white ? ’ 

“And that is an excellent observe, Mr. Balfour 
of Shaws,” says Alan, drolling with me: “and it 
would certainly be much simpler for me to write to 
him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to 
read it. He would have to go to school for two- 
three years; and it’s possible we might be wearied 
waiting on him.” 

So that night Alan carried down his fiery cross 
and set it in the bouman’s window. He was troubled 
when he came back; for the dogs had barked and 
the folk run out from their houses; and he thought 
he had heard a clatter of arms and seen a red-coat 
come to one of the doors. On all accounts, we lay 
the next day in the borders of the wood and kept a 
close look-out; so that if it was John Breck that 
came, we might be ready to guide him, and if it was 
the red-coats, we should have time to get away. 

About noon a man was to be spied, straggling up 
the open side of the mountain in the sun, and look- 
ing round him as he came, from under his hand. 
No sooner had Alan seen him than he whistled; the 
man turned and came a little toward us: then Alan 
would give another “peep!” and the man would 
come still nearer; and so by the sound of whistling 
he was guided to the spot where we lay. 

He was a ragged, wild, bearded man, about forty, 
grossly disfigured with the smallpox, and looked 
both dull and savage. Although his English was 
very bad and broken, yet Alan (according to his 
very handsome use, whenever I was by) would 


KIDNAPPED 


191 


suffer him to speak in Gaelic. Perhaps the strange 
language made him appear more backward than he 
really was; but I thought he had little good-will 
to serve us, and what he had was the child of terror. 

Alan would have had him carry a message to 
James; but the bouman would hear of no message. 
“She was forget it,” he said in his screaming voice; 
and would either have a letter or wash his hands of 
us. 

I thought Alan would be graveled at that, for we 
lacked the means of writing in the desert. But he 
was a man of more resources than I knew; searched 
the wood until he found a quill of cushat-dove, 
which he shaped into a pen; made himself a kind 
of ink with gun-powder from his horn and water 
from the running stream; and tearing a corner 
from his French military commission (which he 
carried in his pocket, like a talisman to keep him 
from the gallows), he sat down and wrote as follows: 

“Dear Kinsman — Please send the money by the bearer 
to the place he kens of. 

“Your affectionate cousin, 

“A. S” 

This he intrusted to the bouman, who promised 
to make what manner of speed he best could, and 
carried it off with him down the hill. 

He was three full days gone, but about five in 
the evening of the third, we heard a whistling in 
the wood, which Alan answered; and presently 
the bouman came up the waterside, looking for us, 
right and left. He seemed less sulky than before, 
and indeed he was no doubt well pleased to have got 
to the end of such a dangerous commission. 

He gave us the news of the country; that it 
was alive with red-coats; that arms were being found. 


192 


KIDNAPPED 


and poor folk brought in trouble daily; and that 
James and some of his servants were already clapped 
in prison at Fort William, under strong suspicion of 
complicity. It seemed, it was noised on all sides 
that Alan Breck had fired the shot; and there was 
a bill issued for both him and me, with one hundred 
pounds reward. 

This was all as bad as could be; and the little 
note the bouman had carried us from Mrs. Stewart 
was of a miserable sadness. In it she besought 
Alan not to let himself be captured, assuring him, 
if he fell in the hands of the troops, both he and 
James were no better than dead men. The money 
she had sent was all that she could beg or borrow, 
and she prayed Heaven we could be doing with 
it. Lastly, she said she inclosed us one of the bills 
in which we were described. 

This we looked upon with great curiosity and not 
a little fear, partly as a man may look in a mirror, 
partly as he might look into the barrel of an enemy’s 
gun to judge if it be truly aimed. Alan was adver- 
tised as “a small, pock-marked, active man of 
thirty-five or thereby, dressed in a feathered hat, 
a French side-coat of blue with silver buttons and 
lace a great deal tarnished, a red waistcoat and 
breeches of black shag”; and I as “a tall strong 
lad of about eighteen, wearing an old blue coat, 
very ragged, an old Highland bonnet, a long home- 
spun waistcoat, blue breeches; his legs bare; low- 
country shoes, wanting the toes; speaks like a 
Lowlander, and has no beard.” 

Alan was well enough pleased to see his finery 
so fully remembered and set down; only when he 
came to the word tarnish, he looked upon his lace 
like one a little mortified. As for myself, I thought 


KIDNAPPED 


193 


I cut a miserable figure in the bill and yet was well 
enough pleased too; for since I had changed these 
rags, the description had ceased to be a danger and 
become a source of safety. 

“Alan,” said I, “you should change your clothes.” 

“Na, troth!” said Alan, “I have nae others. 
A fine sight I would be if I went back to France in a 
bonnet!” 

This put a second reflection in my mind: that if 
I were to separate from Alan and his tell-tale clothes, 
I should be safe against arrest, and might go openly 
about my business. Nor was this all; for suppose 
I was arrested when I was alone, there was little 
against me; but suppose I was taken in company 
with the reputed murderer, my case would begin to 
be grave. For generosity’s sake, I dare not speak 
my mind upon this head; but I thought of it none 
the less. 

I thought of it all the more, too, when the bou- 
man brought out a green purse with four guineas in 
gold, and the best part of another in small change. 
True, it was more than I had. But then, Alan with 
less than five guineas, had to get as far as France; 
I, with my less than two, not beyond Queensferry; 
so that, taking things in their proportion, Alan’s 
society was not* only a peril to my life but a burden 
on my purse. 

But there was no thought of the sort in the honest 
head of my companion. He believed he was serv- 
ing, helping, and protecting me. And what could 
I do, but hold my peace, and chafe, and take my 
chance of it? 

“It’s little enough,” said Alan, putting the purse 
in his pocket, “but it’ll do my business. And now, 
John Breck, if ye will hand me over my button, 


194 


KIDNAPPED 


this gentleman and me will be for taking the 
road.” 

But the bouman, after feeling about in a hairy 
purse that hung in front of him in the Highland 
manner (though he wore otherwise the Lowland 
habit, with sea-trousers) began to roll his eyes 
strangely, and at last said, “Her nainsel will loss 
it,” meaning he thought he had lost it. 

“What!” cried Alan, “you will lose my button, 
that was my father’s before me? Now, I will tell 
you what is in my mind, John Breck: it is in my 
mind this is the worst day’s work that ever ye did 
since ye were born.” 

And as Alan spoke, he set his hands on his knees 
and looked at the bouman with a smiling mouth, 
and that dancing light in his eyes that meant mis- 
chief to his enemies. 

Perhaps the bouman was honest enough; per- 
haps he had meant to cheat and then, finding him- 
self alone with two of us in a desert place, cast back 
to honesty as being safer; at least, and all at once, 
he seemed to find the button and handed it to 
Alan. 

“Well, and it is a good thing for the honor of the 
Maccolls,” said Alan, and then to me, “Here is my 
button back again, and I thank you for parting with 
it, which is of a piece with all your friendships to 
me.” Then he took the warmest parting of the 
bouman. “For,” says he, “ye have done very well 
by me, and set your neck at a venture, and I will 
always give you the name of a good man.” 

Lastly, the bouman took himself off by one way; 
and Alan and I (getting our chattels together) struck 
into another to resume our flight. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MUIR 

More than eleven hours of incessant, hard travel- 
ing brought us early in the morning to the end of 
a range of mountains. In front of us there lay a 
piece of low, broken, desert land, which we must 
now cross. The sun was not long up and shone 
straight in our eyes; a little, thin mist went up from 
the face of the moorland like a smoke; so that (as 
Alan said) there might have been twenty squadrons 
of dragoons there, and we none the wiser. 

We sat down, therefore, in a howe of the hillside, 
till the mist should have risen, and made ourselves 
a dish of drammach, and held a council of war. 

“David,” said Alan, “this is the kittle bit. Shall 
we lie here till it comes night, or shall we risk it and 
stave on ahead?” 

“Well,” said I, “I am tired indeed, but I could 
walk as far again, if that was all.” 

“Ay, but it is nae,” said Alan, “nor yet the half. 
This is how we stand: Appin’s fair death to us. 
To the south, it’s all Campbells, and no to be 
thought of. To the north, well, there’s no muckle 
to be gained by going north; neither for you, that 
wants to get to Queensferry, nor yet for me, that 
wants to get to France. Well, then we’ll can strike 
east.” 

“East be it!” says I, quite cheerily; but I was 

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196 

thinking, in to myself: “O man, if you would only 
take one point of the compass and let me take any 
other, it would be the best for both of us.” 

“Well, then, east, ye see, we have the Muirs,” 
said Alan. “Once there, David, its mere pitch- 
and-toss. Out on yon bald, naked, flat place, 
where can a body turn to ? Let the red-coats come 
over a hill, they can spy you miles away; and the 
sorrow’s in their horses’ heels! they would soon ride 
you down. It’s no good place, David; and I’m 
free to say, it’s worse by daylight than by dark.” 

“Alan,” said I, “hear my way of it. Appin’s 
death for us; we have none too much money, nor 
yet meal; the longer they seek, the nearer they may 
guess where we are; it’s all a risk; and I give my 
word to go ahead until we drop.” 

Alan was delighted. “There are whiles,” said he, 
“when ye are altogether too canny and Whiggish 
to be company for a gentleman like me; but there 
come other whiles when ye show yoursel’ a mettle 
spark; and it’s then, David, that I love ye like a 
brother.” 

The mist rose and died away, and showed us that 
country lying as waste as the sea; only the moor- 
fowl and the peewees crying upon it, and far over 
to the east, a herd of deer, moving like dots. Much 
of it was red heather; much of the rest broken up 
with bogs and hags and peaty pools; some had been 
burnt black in a heath-fire; and in another place 
there was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like 
skeletons. A wearier looking desert man never 
saw; but at least it was clear of troops, which was 
our point. 

We went down accordingly into the waste, and 
began to make our toilsome and devious travel 


KIDNAPPED 


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toward the eastern verge. There were the tops of 
mountains all round (you are to remember) from 
whence we might be spied at any moment; so it 
behooved us to keep in the hollow parts of the moor, 
and when these turned aside from our direction, to 
move upon its naked face with infinite care. Some- 
times for half-an-hour together we must crawl from 
one heather-bush to another, as hunters do when 
they are hard upon the deer. It was a clear day 
again, with a blazing sun; the water in the brandy 
bottle was soon gone; and altogether, if I had guessed 
what it would be to crawl half the time upon my 
belly, and to walk much of the rest stooping nearly 
to the knees, I should certainly have held back 
from such a killing enterprise. 

Toiling and resting and toiling again, we wore 
away the morning; and about noon lay down in a 
thick bush of heather to sleep. Alan took the first 
watch; and it seemed to me I had scarce closed 
my eyes before I was shaken up to take the second. 
We had no clock to go by; and Alan stuck a sprig of 
heath in the ground to serve instead; so that as soon 
as the shadow of the bush should fall so far to the 
east, I might know to rouse him. But I was by this 
time so weary that I could have slept twelve hours 
at a stretch; I had the taste of sleep in my throat; 
my joints slept even when my mind was waking; 
the hot smell of the heather, and the drone of the 
wild bees, were like possets to me; and every now 
and again I would give a jump and find I had been 
dozing. 

The last time I woke, I seemed to come back 
from farther away, and thought the sun had taken 
a great start in the Heavens. I looked at the sprig 
of heath, and at that I could have cried aloud; for 


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I saw I had betrayed my trust. My head was 
nearly turned with fear and shame; and at what I 
saw, when I looked out around me on the muir, my 
heart was like dying in my body. For sure enough, 
a body of horse-soldiers had come down during my 
sleep, and were drawing near to us from the south- 
east, spread out in the shape of a fan and riding their 
horses to and fro in the deep parts of the heather. 

When I waked Alan, he glanced first at the sol- 
diers, then at the mark and the position of the sun, 
and knitted his brows with a sudden, quick look, 
both ugly and anxious, which was all the reproach I 
had of him. 

“ What are we to do now ?” I asked. 

“We’ll have to play at being hares,” said he. 
“Do ye see yon mountain?” pointing to one on the 
northeastern sky. 

“Ay,” said ‘I. 

“Well, then,” says he, “let us strike for that. 
Its name is Ben Alder; it is a wild, desert mountain 
full of hills and hollows, and if we can win to it be- 
fore the morn, we may do yet.” 

“But, Alan,” cried I, “that will take us across 
the very coming of the soldiers!” 

“I ken that fine,” said he; “but if we are driven 
back on Appin, we are two dead men. So now, 
David man, be brisk!” 

With that he began to run forward on his hands 
and knees with an incredible quickness, as though 
it were his natural way of going. All the time, too, 
he kept winding in and out in the lower parts of the 
moorland where we were the best concealed. Some 
of these had been burned or at least scathed with 
fire; and there rose in our faces (which were close 
to the ground) a blinding, choking dust as fine as 


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199 


smoke. The water was long out; and this posture 
of running on the hands and knees brings an over- 
mastering weakness and weariness, so that the 
joints ache and the wrists faint under your weight. 

Now and then, indeed, where was a big bush of 
heather, we lay awhile and panted, and putting aside 
the leaves, looked back at the dragoons. They 
had not spied us, for they held straight on; a half- 
troop, I think, covering about two miles of ground 
and beating it mighty thoroughly as they went. 
I had awakened just in time; a little later, and we 
must have fled in front of them, instead of escaping 
on one side. Even as it was, the least misfortune 
might betray us; and now and again, when a grouse 
rose out of the heather with a clap of wings, we 
lay as still as the dead and were afraid to breathe. 

The aching and faintness of my body, the labor- 
ing of my throat and eyes in the continued smoke 
of dust and ashes, had soon grown to be so unbear- 
able that I would gladly have give up. Nothing 
but the fear of Alan lent me enough of a false kind 
of courage to continue. As for himself (and you 
are to bear in mind that he was cumbered with a 
great-coat) he had first turned crimson, but as time 
went on, the redness began to be mingled with 
patches of white; his breath cried and whistled as 
it came; and his voice, when he whispered his ob- 
servations in my ear during our halts, sounded like 
nothing human. Yet he seemed in no way dashed 
in spirits, nor did he at all abate in his activity; 
so that I was driven to marvel at the man’s endur- 
ance. 

At length, in the first gloaming of the night, we 
heard a trumpet sound, and looking back from 
among the heather, saw the troop beginning to col- 


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lect. A little after, they had built a fire and camped 
for the night, about the middle of the waste. 

At this I begged and besought that we might lie 
down and sleep. 

“There shall be no sleep the night!” said Alan. 
“From now on, these weary dragoons of yours will 
keep the crown of the muirland, and none will get 
out of Appin but winged fowls. We got through in 
the nick of time, and shall we jeopard what we’ve 
gained? Na, na, when the day comes, it shall find 
you and me in a fast place on Ben Alder.” 

“Alan,” I said, “it’s not the want of will; it’s 
the strength that I want. If I could, I would; but 
as sure as I’m alive, I cannot.” 

“Very well, then,” said Alan. “I’ll carry ye.” 

I looked to see if he were jesting; but no, the 
little man was* in dead earnest; and the sight of so 
much resolution shamed me. 

“Lead away!” said I. “I’ll follow.” 

He gave me one look, as much to say, “Well 
done, David!” and off he set again at his top 
speed. 

It grew cooler and even a little darker (but not 
much) with the coming of the night. The sky was 
cloudless; it was still early in July, and pretty far 
north; in the darkest part of that night, you would 
have needed pretty good eyes to read, but for all 
that, I have often seen it darker in a winter midday. 
Heavy dew fell, and drenched the moor like rain; 
and this refreshed me for awhile. When we stopped 
to breathe, and I had time to see all about me the 
clearness and sweetness of the night, the shapes of 
the hills like things asleep, and the fire dwindling 
away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the 
moor, anger would come upon me in a clap that I 


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201 


must still drag myself in agony and eat the aust like 
a worm. 

By what I have read in books, I think few that 
have held a pen were ever really wearied, or they 
would write of it more strongly. I had no care of 
my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce re- 
membered there was such a lad as David Balfour. 
I did not think of myself, but just of each fresh step 
which I was sure would be my last, with despair — 
and of Alan, who was the cause of it, with hatred. 
Alan was in the right trade as a soldier; this is the 
officer’s part to make men continue to do things, 
they know not wherefore, and when, if the choice 
was offered, they would lie down where they were 
and be killed. And I daresay I would have made 
a good enough private; for in these last hours, it 
never occurred to me that I had any choice, but just 
to obey as long as I was able, and die obeying. 

Day began to come in, after years, I thought; and 
by that time, we were past the greatest danger, and 
could walk upon our feet like men, instead of crawl- 
ing like brutes. But, dear heart, have mercy! 
what a pair we must have made, going double like 
old grandfathers, stumbling like babes, and as white 
as dead folk. Never a word passed between us; 
each set his mouth and kept his eyes in front of him, 
and lifted up his foot and set it down again, like 
people lifting weights at a country play; * all the 
while, with the moorfowl crying “peep!” in the 
heather, and the light coming slowly clearer in the east. 

I say Alan did as I did; not that ever I looked at 
him, for I had enough ado to keep my feet; but be- 
cause it is plain he must have been as stupid with 
weariness as myself, and looked as little where we 

* Village fair. 


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were going, or we should not have walked into an 
ambush like blind men. 

It fell in this way: We were going down a heathery 
brae, Alan leading and I following a pace or two 
behind, like a fiddler and his wife; when upon a 
sudden the heather gave a rustle, three or four ragged 
men leaped out, and the next moment we were lying 
on our backs each with a dirk at his throat. 

I don’t think I cared: the pain of this rough 
handling was quite swallowed up by the pains of 
which I was already full; and I was too glad to have 
stopped walking to mind about the dirk. I lay look- 
ing up in the face of the man that held me; and I 
mind his face was black with the sun and his eyes 
very light, but I was not afraid of him. I heard 
Alan and another whispering in the Gaelic; and 
what they said was all one to me. 

Then the dirks were put up, our weapons were 
taken away, and we were set face to face, sitting in 
the heather. 

“They are Cluny’s men,” said Alan. “We 
couldnae have fallen better. We’re just to bide here 
with these, which are his out-sentries, till they can 
get word to the chief of my arrival.” 

Now Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the clan 
Vourich, had been one of the leaders of the great 
rebellion six years before; there was a price on his 
life; and I had supposed him long ago in France, 
with the rest of the heads of that desperate party. 
Even tired as I was, the surprise of what I heard 
half wakened me. 

“What?” I cried. “Is Cluny still here?” 

“Ay is he so!” said Alan. “Still in his own 
country and kept by his own clan. King George 
can do no more.” 


KIDNAPPED 


203 


I think I would have asked farther, but Alan gave 
me the put-off. “I am rather wearied,” he said, 
“and I would like fine to get a sleep.” And without 
more words, he rolled on his face in a deep heather- 
bush, and seemed to sleep at once. 

There was no such thing possible for me. You 
have heard grasshoppers whirring in the grass in the 
summer time? Well, I had no sooner closed my 
eyes than my body, and above all my head, belly, 
and wrists, seemed to be filled with whirring grass- 
hoppers; and I must open my eyes again at once, 
and tumble and toss, and sit up and lie down; and 
look at the sky which dazzled me, or at Cluny’s 
wild and dirty sentries, peering out over the top of 
the brae and chattering to each other in the Gaelic. 

That was all the rest I had, until the messenger re- 
turned; when, as it appeared that Cluny would be 
glad to receive us, we must get once more upon our 
feet and set forward. Alan was in excellent good 
spirits, much refreshed by his sleep, very hungry, 
and looking pleasantly forward to a dram and a 
dish of hot collops, of which, it seems, the messenger 
had brought him word. For my part, it made me 
sick to hear of eating. I had been dead-heavy be- 
fore, and now I felt a kind of dreadful lightness, 
which would not suffer me to walk. I drifted like 
a gossamer; the ground seemed to me a cloud, the 
hills a feather-weight, the air to haye a current, like 
a running burn, which carried me to and fro. With 
all that, a sort of horror and despair sat on my 
mind, so that I could have wept at my own helpless- 
ness. 

I saw Alan knitting his brows at me, and sup- 
posed it was in anger; and that gave me a pang of 
light-headed fear, like what a child may have. I 


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remember, too, that I was smiling, and could not 
stop smiling, hard as I tried; for I thought it was 
out of place at such a time. But my good companion 
had nothing in his mind but kindness; and the next 
moment, two of the gillies had me by the arms, and I 
began to be carried forward with great swiftness 
(or so it appeared to me, although I dare say it was 
slowly enough in truth) through a labyrinth of 
dreary glens and hollows and into the heart of that 
dismal mountain of Ben Alder. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


cluny’s cage 

We came at last to the foot of an exceedingly steep 
wood, which scrambled up a scraggy hillside, and 
was crowned by a naked precipice. 

“It’s here,” said one of the guides, and we struck 
up hill. 

The trees clung upon the slope, like sailors on the 
shrouds of a ship; and their trunks were like the 
rounds of a ladder, by which we mounted. 

Quite at the top, and just before the rocky face of 
the cliff sprang above the foliage, we found that 
strange house which was known in the country as 
“ Cluny’s Cage.” The trunks of several trees had 
been wattled across, the intervals strengthened with 
stakes, and the ground behind this barricade leveled 
up with earth to make the floor. A tree, which grew 
out from the hillside, was the living center-beam of 
the roof. The walls were of wattle and covered with 
moss. The whole house had something of an egg 
shape; and it half hung, half stood in that steep, hill- 
side thicket, like a wasp’s nest in a green hawthorn. 

Within it was large enough to shelter five or six 
persons with some comfort. A projection of the 
cliff had been cunningly employed to be the fire- 
place; and the smoke rising against the face of the 
rock, and being not dissimilar in color, readily es- 
caped notice from below. 


205 


206 


KIDNAPPED 


This was but one of Cluny’s hiding-places; he 
had caves, besides, and underground chambers in 
several parts of his country; and following the re- 
ports of his scouts, he moved from one to another 
as the soliders drew near or moved away. By this 
manner of living, and thanks to the affection of his 
clan, he had not only stayed all this time in safety, 
while so many others had fled or been taken and 
slain, but stayed four or five years longer, and only 
went to France at last by the express command of 
his master. There he soon died; and it’s strange 
to reflect that he may have regretted his Cage upon 
Ben Alder. 

When we came to the door, he was seated by his 
rock chimney, watching a gillie about some cookery. 
He was mighty plainly habited, with a knitted night- 
cap drawn over his ears, and smoked a foul cutty 
pipe. For all that he had the manners of a king, and 
it was quite a sight to see him rise out of his place 
to welcome us. 

“Well, Mr. Stewart, come awa’, sir!” said he, 
“and bring in your friend that as yet I dinna ken the 
name of.” 

“And how is yourself, Cluny?” said Alan. “I 
hope ye do brawly, sir. And I am proud to see ye, 
and to present to ye my friend the Laird of Shaws, 
Mr. David Balfour.” 

Alan never referred to my estate without a touch 
of a sneer, when we were alone; but with strangers, 
he rang the words out like a herald. 

“Step in by, the both of ye, gentlemen,” says 
Cluny. “I make ye welcome to my house, which 
is a queer, rude place for certain, but one where I 
have entertained a royal personage, Mr. Stewart 

ye doubtless ken the personage I have in my 


KIDNAPPED 


207 


eye. We’ll take a dram for luck, and as soon as 
this handless man of mine has the collops ready, 
we’ll dine and take a hand at the cartes as gentle- 
men should. My life is a bit driegh,” says he, 
pouring out the brandy; “I see little company,” 
and sit and twirl my thumbs, and mind upon a great 
day that is gone by, and weary for another great day 
that we all hope will be upon the road. And so 
here’s a toast to ye: The Restoration!” 

Thereupon we all touched glasses and drank. I 
am sure I wished no ill to King George; and if he 
had been there himself in proper person, it’s like 
•he would have done as I did. No sooner had I 
taken out the dram than I felt hugely better, and 
could look on and listen, still a little mistily perhaps, 
but no longer with the same groundless horror and 
distress of mind. 

It was certainly a strange place, and we had a 
strange host. In his long hiding, Cluny had grown 
to have all manner of precise habits, like those of 
an old maid. He had a particular place, where no 
one else must sit; the Cage was arranged in a partic- 
ular way, which none must disturb; cookery was 
one of his chief fancies, and even while he was greet- 
ing us in, he kept an eye to the collops. 

It appears, he sometimes visited or received visits 
from his wife and one or two of his nearest friends, 
under the cover of night; but for the most part 
lived quite alone, and communicated only with 
his sentinels and the gillies that waited on him in 
the Cage. The first thing in the morning, one of 
them, who was a barber, came and shaved him, and 
gave him the news of the country, of which he was 
immoderately greedy. There was no end to his 
questions; he put them as earnestly as a child; 


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and at some of the answers, laughed out of all bounds 
of reason, and would break out again laughing at 
the mere memory, hours after the barber was gone. 

To be sure, there might have been a purpose in 
his questions; for though he was thus sequestered, 
and like the other landed gentlemen of Scotland, 
stripped by the late Act of Parliament of legal 
powers, he still exercised a patriarchial justice in 
his clan. Disputes were brought to him in his 
hiding-hole to be decided; and the men of his 
country, who would have snapped their fingers at 
the Court of Session, laid aside revenge and paid 
down money at the bare word of this forfeited and 
hunted outlaw. When he was angered, which was 
often enough, he gave his commands and breathed 
threats of punishment like any king; and his gillies 
trembled an4 crouched away from him like children 
before a hasty father. With each of them, as he 
entered, he ceremoniously shook hands, both 
parties touching their bonnets at the same time in a 
military manner. Altogether, I had a fair chance 
to see some of the inner workings of a Highland clan; 
and this with a proscribed, fugitive chief; his coun- 
try conquered; the troops riding upon all sides in 
quest of him, sometimes within a mile of where 
he lay; and when the least of the ragged fellows 
whom he rated and threatened could have made 
a fortune by betraying him. 

On that first day, as soon as the collops were 
ready, Cluny gave them with his own hand a squeeze 
of a lemon (for he was well supplied with luxuries) 
and bade us draw in to our meal. 

“They,” said he, meaning the collops, “are such 
as I gave His Royal Highness in this very house; 
bating the lemon-juice, for at that time we were glad 


KIDNAPPED 


209 


to get the meat and never fashed for kitchen. In- 
deed, there were mair dragoons than lemons in my 
country in the year forty-six.” 

I do not know if the collops were truly very good, 
but my heart rose against the very sight of them, 
and I could eat but little. All the while Cluny en- 
tertained us with stories of Prince Charlie’s stay in 
the Cage, giving us the very words of the speakers 
and rising from his place to show us where they 
stood. By these, I gathered the prince was a 
gracious, spirited boy, like the son of a race of polite 
kings, but not so wise as Solomon. I gathered, 
too, that while he was in the Cage, he was often 
drunk; so the fault that has since, by all accounts, 
made such a wreck of him, had even then begun to 
show itself. 

We were no sooner done eating, than Cluny brought 
out an old, thumbed, greasy pack of cards, such as you 
may find in a mean inn; and his eyes brightened in 
his face as he proposed that we should fall to playing. 

Now, this was one of the things I had been brought 
up to eschew like disgrace; it being held by my 
father neither the part of a Christian nor yet of a 
gentleman, to set his own livelihood and fish for that 
of others, on the cast of painted pasteboard. To be 
sure, I might have pleaded my fatigue, which was 
excuse enough; but I thought it behooved that I 
should bear a testimony. I must have got very red 
in the face, but I spoke steadily, and told them I 
had no call to be a judge of others, but for my own 
part, it was a matter in which I had no clearness. 

Cluny stopped mingling the cards. “What in 
deil’s name is this?” says he. “What kind of 
Whiggish, canting talk is this, for the house of Cluny 
Macpherson?” 


210 


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“I will put my hand in the fire for Mr. Balfour,” 
says Alan. “He -is an honest and a mettle gentle- 
man, and I would have ye bear in mind who says 
it. I bear a king’s name,” says he, cocking his 
hat; “and I and any that I call friend are company 
for the best. But the gentleman is tired, and should 
sleep; if he has no mind to the cartes, it will never 
hinder you and me. And I’m fit and willing, sir, 
to play ye any game that ye can name.” 

“Sir,” says Cluny, “in this poor house of mine, 
I would have ye to ken that any gentleman may 
follow his pleasure. If your friend would like to 
stand on his head, he is welcome. And if either he, 
or you, or any other man, is not preceesely satisfied, 
I will be proud to step outside with him.” 

I had no will that these two friends should cut 
their throats for my sake. 

“Sir,” said I, “I am very wearied, as Alan says; 
and what’s more, as you are a man that likely has 
sons of your own, I may tell you it was a promise 
to my father.” 

“Say nae mair, say nae mair,” said Cluny, and 
pointed me to a bed of heather in a corner of the 
Cage. For all that, he was displeased enough, 
looked at me askance, and grumbled when he looked. 
And indeed it must be owned that both my scruples 
and the words in which I declared them smacked 
somewhat of the Covenanter, and were little in 
their place among wild Highland Jacobites. 

What with the brandy and the venison, a strange 
heaviness had come over me; and I had scarce 
lain down upon the bed before I fell into a kind of 
trance in which I continued almost the whole time 
of our stay in the Cage. Sometimes I was broad 
awake and understood what passed; sometimes I 


KIDNAPPED 


21 1 


only heard voices or men snoring, like the voice of 
a silly river; and the plaids upon the wall dwindled 
down and swelled out again, like firelight shadows 
on the roof. I must sometimes have spoken or 
cried out, for I remember I was now and then 
•amazed at being answered; yet I was conscious of 
no particular nightmare, only of a general, black, 
^abiding horror — a horror of the place I was in, 
and the bed I lay in, and the plaids on the wall, and 
the voices, and the fire, and myself. 

The barber-gillie, who was a doctor, too, was 
called in to prescribe for me, but as he spoke ih the 
Gaelic, I understood not a word of his opinion, and 
was too sick even to ask for a translation. I knew 
well enough I was ill, and that was all I cared about. 

I paid little heed while I lay ih this poor pass. 
But Alan and Cluny were most of the time at the 
cards, and I am clear that Alan must have begun by 
winning; for I remember sitting up, and seeing them 
hard at it, and a great glittering pile of as much as 
sixty or a hundred guineas on the table. It looked 
strange enough, to see all this wealth in a nest upon 
a cliffside, wattled about growing trees. And even 
then, I thought it seemed deep water for Alan to be 
riding, who had no better battle-horse than a green 
purse and a matter of five pounds. 

The luck, it seems, changed on the second day. 
About noon I was awakened as usual for dinner, 
and as usual refused to eat, and was given a dram 
with some bitter infusion which the barber had 
prescribed. The sun was shining in at the open 
door of the Cage, and this dazzled and offended 
me. Cluny sat at the table, biting the pack of 
cards. Alan had stooped over the bed, and had 
his face close to my eyes; to which, troubled as 


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they were with the fever, it seemed of the most 
shocking bigness. 

He asked me for a loan of my money. 

“What for?” said I. 

“O, just for a loan,” said he. 

“But why?” I repeated. “I don’t see.” 

“Hut, David!” said Alan, “ye wouldnae grudge 
me a loan?” 

I would, though, if I had had my senses! But 
all I thought of then was to get his face away, and I 
handed him my money. 

On the morning of the third day, when we had 
been forty-eight hours in the Cage, I awoke with a 
great relief of spirits, very weak and weary indeed, 
but seeing things of the right size and with their 
honest every-day' appearance. I had a mind to 
eat, moreover; rose from bed of my own movement; 
and as soon as we had breakfasted, stepped to the 
entry of the Cage and sat down outside in the top of 
the wood. It was a gray day, with a cool, mild 
air; and I sat in a dream all morning, only dis- 
turbed by the passing by of Cluny’s scouts and ser- 
vants coming with provisions and reports; for as the 
coast was at that time clear, you might almost say 
he held court openly. 

When I returned, he and Alan had laid the cards 
aside and were questioning a gillie; and the chief 
turned about and spoke to me in the Gaelic. 

“I have no Gaelic, sir,” said I. 

Now since the card question, everything I said or 
did had the power of annoying Cluny. “Your 
name has more sense than yourself, then,” said he, 
angrily; “for it’s good Gaelic. But the point is 
this. My scout reports all clear in the south, and 
the question is have ye the strength to go?” 


KIDNAPPED 


213 


I saw cards on the table, but no gold ; only a heap 
of little written papers, and these all on Cluny’s 
side. Alan besides had an odd look, like a man not 
very well content; and I began to have a strong 
misgiving. 

“I do not know if I am as well as I should be,” 
said I, looking at Alan; “but the little money we 
have has a long way to carry us.” 

Alan took his underlip into his mouth, and looked 
upon the ground. 

“David,” says he, at last, “I’ve lost it; there’s 
the naked truth.” 

“My money, too?” said I. 

“Your money, too,” says Alan, with a groan. 
“Ye shouldnae have given it me. I’m daft when I 
get to the cartes.” 

“Hoot-toot, hoot-toot,” said Cluny. “It was 
all daffing; it’s all nonsense. Of course, ye’ll 
have your money back again, and the double of it, 
if ye’ll make so free with me. It would be a singu- 
lar thing for me to keep it. It’s not to be supposed 
that I would be any hindrance to gentlemen in .your 
situation; that would be a singular thing!” cries 
he, and began to pull gold out of his pocket, with a 
mighty red face. 

Alan said nothing, only looked on the ground. 

“Will you step to the door with me, sir?” said I. 

Cluny said he would be very glad, and followed 
me readily enough, but he looked flustered, and put 
out. 

“And now,” says I, “I must first acknowledge 
your generosity.” 

“Nonsensical nonsense! ” cries Cluny. “Where’s 
the generosity? This is just a most unfortunate 
affair; but what would ye have me do — boxed up 


214 


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in this beeskep of a cage of mine — but just set my 
friends to the cartes, when I can get them ? And if 

they lose, of course, it’s not to be supposed ” 

And here he came to a pause. 

“Yes,” said I, “if they lose, you give them back 
their money; and if they win, they carry away yours 
in their pouches! I have said before that I grant 
your generosity; but to me, sir, it’s a very painful 
thing to be placed in this position.” 

There was a little silence, in which Cluny seemed 
always as if he was about to speak, but said nothing. 
All the time, he grew redder and redder in the 
face. 

“I am a young man,” said I, “and I ask your 
advice. Advise me as you would advise your son. 
My friend fairly lost the money, after having fairly 
gained a far greater sum of yours; can I accept it 
back again? would that be the right part for me 
to play ? Whatever I do you can see for yourself it 
must be hard upon a man of any pride.” 

“It’s rather hard on me too, Mr. Balfour,” said 
Cluny, “and ye give me very much the look of a 
man that has entrapped poor people to their hurt. 
I wouldnae have my friends come to any house of 
mine to accept affronts; no,” he cried, with a sudden 
heat of anger, “nor yet to give them!” 

“And so you see, sir,” said I, “there is something 
to be said upon my side; and this gampling is a very 
poor employ for gentlefolks. But I am still waiting 
your opinion.” 

I am sure if ever Cluny hated any man, it was 
David Balfour. He looked me all over with a war- 
like eye, and I saw the challenge at his lips. But 
either my youth disarmed him, or perhaps his own 
sense of justice. Certainly, it was a mortifying matter 


KIDNAPPED 


215 


for all concerned, and not least for Cluny; the more 
credit that he took it as he did. 

“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “I think you are too nice 
and covenanting, but for all that you have the spirit 
of a very pretty gentleman. Upon my honest word, 
ye may take this money — it’s what I would tell my 
son — and here’s my hand along with it.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL 

Alan and I were put across Loch Errocht under 
cloud of night, and went down its eastern shore to 
another hiding-place near the head of Loch Ran- 
noch, whither we were led by one of the gillies from 
the Cage. This fellow carried all our luggage and 
Alan’s great-coat in the bargain, trotting along 
under the burthen, far less than the half of which 
used to weigh me to the ground, like a stout hill 
pony with a feather; yet he was a man that, in plain 
contest, I could have broken on my knee. 

Doubtless it was a great relief to walk disencum- 
bered; and perhaps without that relief, and the 
consequent sense of liberty and lightness, I could not 
have walked at all. I was but new risen from a bed 
of sickness, and there was nothing in the state of our 
affairs to hearten me for much exertion; traveling, 
as we did, over the most dismal deserts in Scotland, 
under a cloudy Heaven, and with divided hearts 
among the travelers. 

For long, we said nothing; marching alongside or 
one behind the other, each with a set countenance; 
I, angry and proud, and drawing what strength I 
had from these two violent and sinful feelings; Alan 
angry and ashamed, ashamed that he had lost money, 
angry that I should take it so ill. 

The thought of a separation ran always the stronger 

216 


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217 


in my mind; and the more I approved of it, the 
more ashamed I grew of my approval. It would 
be a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed, for 
Alan to turn round and say to me: “ Go, I am in the 
most danger, and my company only increases yours.” 
But for me to turn to the friend who certainly loved 
me, and say to him: “You are in great danger, I 
am in but little; your friendship is a burden; go 

take your risks and bear your hardships alone ” 

no, that was impossible; and even to think of it 
privily to myself, made my cheeks to burn. 

And yet Alan behaved like a child and (what is 
worse) a treacherous child. Wheedling my money 
from me while I lay half-conscious was scarce better 
than theft; and yet here he was trudging by my side, 
without a penny to his name, and by what I could 
see, quite blithe to sponge upon the money he had 
driven me to beg. True, I was ready to share it 
with him; but it made me rage to see him count 
upon my readiness. 

These were the two things uppermost in my 
mind; and I could open my mouth upon neither 
without black ungenerosity. So I did the next 
worse, and said nothing, nor so much as looked 
once at my companion, save with the tail of my 
eye. 

At last, upon the other side of Loch Errocht, 
going over a smooth, rushy place, where the walking 
was easy, he could bear it no longer, and came 
close to me. 

“David,” says he, “this is no way for two friends 
to take a small accident. I have to say that Pm 
sorry; and so that’s said. And now if you have 
anything, ye’d better say it.” 

“O,” says I, “I have nothing.” 


2l8 


KIDNAPPED 


He seemed disconcerted, at which I was meanly 
pleased. 

“No,” said he, with a rather trembling voice, “but 
when I say I was to blame?” 

“Why, of course, you were to blame,” said I, 
coolly; “and you will bear me out that I have 
never reproached you.” 

“Never,” says he; “but ye ken very well that 
ye’ve done worse. Are we to part? Ye said so 
once before. Are ye to say it again? There’s 
hills and heather enough between here and the two 
seas, David; and I will own I’m no very keen to 
stay where I’m no wanted.” 

This pierced me like a sword, and seemed to lay 
bare my private disloyalty. 

“Alan Breck!” I cried; and then: “Do you 
think I am one to turn my back on you in your 
chief need? You dursn’t say it to my face. My 
whole conduct’s there to give the lie to it. It’s 
true, I fell asleep upon the Muir; but that was from 
weariness, and you do wrong to cast it up to me ” 

“Which is what I never did,” said Alan. 

“But aside from that,” I continued, “what have 
I done that you should even me to dogs by such a 
supposition? I never yet failed a friend, and it’s 
not likely I’ll begin with you. There are things 
between us that I can never forget, even if you 
can.” 

“I will only say this to ye, David,” said Alan, 
very quietly, “that I have long been owing ye my 
life, and now I owe ye money. Ye should try to 
make that burden light for me.” 

This ought to have touched me, and in a manner 
it did, but the wrong manner. I felt I was behav- 
ing badly; and was now not only angry with Alan, 


KIDNAPPED 


219 


but angry with myself in the bargain; and it made 
me the more cruel. 

“You asked me to speak,” said I. “Well, then, 
I will. You own yourself that you have done me a 
disservice; I have had to swallow an affront; I have 
never reproached you, I never named the thing till 
you did. And now you blame me,” cried I, “be- 
cause I cannae laugh and sing as if I was glad to be 
affronted. The next thing will be that I’m to go 
down upon my knees and thank you for it! Ye 
should think more of others, Alan Breck. If ye 
thought more of others, ye would perhaps speak less 
about yourself; and when a friend that likes you 
very well, has passed over an offense without a word, 
you would be blithe to let it lie, instead of making it 
a stick to break his back with. By your own way 
of it, it was you that was to blame; then it should- 
nae be you to seek the quarrel.” 

“Aweel,” said Alan, “say nae mair.” 

And we fell back into our former silence; and 
came to our journey’s end and supped, and lay down 
to sleep, without another word. 

The gillie put us across Loch Rannoch in the 
dusk of the next day, and gave us his opinion as to 
our best route. This was to get us up at once into 
the tops of the mountains: to go round by a circuit, 
turning the heads of Glen Lyon, Glen Lochay, and 
Glen Dochart, and come down upon the lowlands 
by Kippen and the upper waters of the Forth. Alan 
was little pleased with a route which led us through 
the country of his blood-foes, the Glenorchy Camp- 
bells. He objected that by turning to the east, we 
should come almost at once among the Athole Stew- 
arts, a race of his own name and lineage, although 
following a different chief, and come besides by a 


220 


KIDNAPPED 


far easier and swifter way to the place whither we 
were bound. But the gillie, who was indeed the 
chief man of Cluny’s scouts, had good reasons to 
give him on all hands, naming the troops in every 
district, and alleging finally (as well so I could 
understand) that we should nowhere be as little 
troubled as in a country of the Campbells. 

Alan gave way at last, but with only half a heart. 
“It’s one of the dowiest countries in Scotland,” 
said he. “There’s naething there that I ken, but 
heath, and crows, and Campbells. But I see that 
ye’re a man of some penetration; and be it as ye 
please!” 

We set forth accordingly by this itinerary; and 
for the best part of three nights traveled on eerie 
mountains and among the well-heads of wild rivers; 
often buried in mist, almost continually blown and 
rained upon, and not once cheered by any glimpse 
of sunshine. By day, we lay and slept in the drench- 
ing heather; by night, incessantly clambered upon 
breakneck hills and among rude crags. We often 
wandered; we were often so involved in fog, that 
we must lie quiet till it lightened. A fire was never 
to be thought of. Our only food was drammach 
and a portion of cold meat that we had carried from 
the Cage; and as for drink, Heaven knows we had 
no want of water. 

This was a dreadful time, rendered the more 
dreadful by the gloom of the weather and the coun- 
try. I was never warm; my teeth chattered in my 
head; I was troubled with a very sore throat, such 
as I had on the isle; I had a painful stitch in my 
side, which never left me; and when I slept in my 
wet bed, with the rain beating above and the mud 
oozing below me, it was to live over again in fancy 


KIDNAPPED 


221 


the worst part of my adventures — to see the tower 
of Shaws lit by lightning, Ransome carried be- 
low on the men’s backs, Shuan dying on the round- 
house floor, or Colin Campbell grasping at the 
bosom of his coat. From such broken slumbers, I 
would be aroused in the gloaming, to sit up in the 
same puddle where I had slept and sup cold dram- 
mach ; the rain driving sharp in my face or running 
down my back in icy trickles; the mist enfolding 
us like as in a gloomy chamber — or perhaps, if 
the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and showing 
us the gulf of some dark valley where the streams 
were crying aloud. 

The sound of an infinite number of rivers came 
up from all round. In this steady rain, the springs 
of the mountain were broken up; every glen gushed 
water like a cistern; every stream was in high spate, 
and had filled and overflowed its channels. During 
our night tramps, it was solemn to hear the voice of 
them below in the valleys, now booming like thun- 
der, now with an angry cry. I could well under- 
stand the story of the Water Kelpie, that demon of 
the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing and 
roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed 
traveler. Alan I saw believed it, or half-believed it; 
and when the cry of the river rose more than usually 
sharp, I was little surprised (though, of course, I 
would still be shocked) to' see him cross himself in 
the manner of the Catholics. 

During all these horrid wanderings, we had no 
familiarity, scarcely even that of speech. The truth 
is that I was sickening for my grave, which is my best 
excuse. But besides that I was of an unforgiving 
disposition from my birth, slow to take offense, 
slower to forget it, and now incensed both against 


222 


KIDNAPPED 


my companion and myself. For the best part of 
two days, he was unweariedly kind; silent, indeed, 
but always ready to help, and always hoping (as I 
could very well see) that my displeasure would blow 
by. For the same length of time, I stayed in myself, 
nursing my anger, roughly refusing his services, 
and passing him over with my eyes as if he had been 
a bush or a stone. 

The second night, or rather the peep of the third 
day, found us upon a very open hill, so that we could 
not follow our usual plan and lie down immediately 
to eat and sleep. Before we had reached a place of 
shelter, the gray had come pretty clear, for though 
it still rained, the clouds ran higher; and Alan, 
looking in my face, showed some marks of concern. 

“Ye had better let me take your pack,” said he, 
for perhaps the ninth time since we parted from the 
scout beside Loch Rannoch. 

“I do very well, I thank you,” said I, as cold as ice. 

Alan flushed darkly. “I’ll not offer it again,” 
he said. “I’m not a patient man, David.” 

“I never said you were,” said I, which was exactly 
the rude, silly speech of a boy of ten. 

Alan made no answer at the time, but his conduct 
answered for him. Henceforth, it is to be thought, 
he quite forgave himself for the affair at Cluny’s; 
cocked his hat again, walked jauntily, whistled airs, 
and looked at me upon one side with a provoking 
smile. 

The third night we were to pass through the 
western end of the country of Balquidder. It came 
clear and cold, with a touch in the air like frost, and 
a northerly wind that blew the clouds away and 
made the stars bright. The streams were full, of 
course, and still made a great noise among the hills; 


KIDNAPPED 


223 


but I observed that Alan thought no more upon the 
Kelpie and was in high good spirits. As for me, 
the change of weather came too late; I had lain 
in the mire so long that (as the Bible has it) my very 
clothes “abhorred me”; I was dead weary, deadly 
sick and full of pains and shiverings; the chill of the 
wind went through me, and the sound of it confused 
my ears. In this poor state, I had to bear from 
my companion something in the nature of a persecu- 
tion. He spoke a good deal, and never without a 
taunt. “Whig” was the best name he had to give 
me. “Here,” he would say, “here’s a dub for ye 
to jump, my Whiggie! I ken you’re a fine jumper!” 
And so on; all the time with a gibing voice and face. 

I knew it was my own doing, and no one else’s; 
but I was too miserable to repent. I felt I could 
drag myself but little farther; pretty soon, I must 
lie down and die on these wet mountains like a sheep 
or a fox, and my bones must whiten there like the 
bones of a beast. My head was light, perhaps; 
but I began to love the prospect, I began to glory 
in the thought of such a death, alone in the desert, 
with the wild eagles besieging my last moments. 
Alan would repent then, I thought; he would re- 
member, when I was dead, how much he owed me, 
and the remembrance would be torture. So I went 
like a sick, silly, and bad-hearted schoolboy, feeding 
my anger against a fellowman, when I would have 
been better on my knees, crying on God for mercy. 
And at each of Alan’s taunts I hugged myself. 
“Ah!” thinks I to myself, “I have a better taunt in 
readiness; when I lie down and die, you will feel it 
like a buffet in your face; ah, what a revenge! ah, 
how you will regret your ingratitude and cruelty!” 

All the while I was growing worse and worse. 


224 


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Once I had fallen, my legs simply doubling under 
me, and this had struck Alan for the moment; but 
I was afoot so briskly, and set off again with such 
a natural manner, that he soon forgot the incident. 
Flushes of heat went over me, and then spasms of 
shuddering. The stitch in my side was hardly 
bearable. At last, I began to feel that I could trail 
myself no farther; and with that there came on me 
all at once the wish to have it out with Alan, let my 
anger blaze, and be done with my life in a more 
sudden manner. He had just called me “Whig.” 
I stopped. 

“Mr. Stewart,” said I, in a voice that quivered 
like a fiddle string, “you are older than I am, and 
should know your manners. Do you think it either 
very wise or very witty to cast my politics in my 
teeth? I thought, where folk differed, it was the 
part of gentlemen to differ civilly; and if I did not, 
I may tell you I could find a better taunt than some 
of yours.” 

Alan had stopped opposite me, his hat cocked, his 
hands in his breeches pockets, his head a little to 
one side. He listened, smiling evilly, as I could see 
by the starlight; and when I had done he began to 
whistle a Jacobite air. It was the air made in mock- 
ery of General Cope’s defeat at Preston Pans: — 

“Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet? 

And are your drums a-beatin’ yet?” 

And it came in my mind that Alan, on the day of that 
battle, had been engaged upon the royal side. 

“Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stewart?” said I. 
“Is that to remind me you have been beaten on both 
sides?” 

The air stopped on Alan’s lips. “David!” said 
he. 


KIDNAPPED 


225 


“But it’s time these manners ceased,” I continued; 
“and I mean you shall henceforth speak civilly of 
my king and my good friends the Campbells.” 

“I am a Stewart ” began Alan. 

“O!” says I, “I ken ye bear a king’s name. 
But you are to remember, since I have been in the 
Highlands, I have seen a good many of those that 
bear it; and the best I can say of them is this, that 
they would be none the worse of washing.” 

“Do you know that you insult me?” said Alan, 
very low. 

“I am sorry for that,” said I, “for I am not done; 
and if you distaste the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue * 
will please you as little. You have been chased in 
the field by the grown men of my party; it seems 
a poor kind of pleasure to outface a boy. Both the 
Campbells and the Whigs have beaten you; you 
have run before them like a hare. It behooves you 
to speak of them as of your betters.” 

Alan stood quite still, the tails of his great-coat 
clapping behind him in the wind. 

“This is a pity,” he said at last. “There are 
things said that cannot be passed over.” 

“I never asked you to,” said I. “I am as ready 
as yourself.” 

“Ready?” said he. 

“Ready,” I repeated. “I am no blower and 
boaster like some that I could name. Come on!” 
And drawing my sword, I fell on guard as Alan him- 
self had taught me. 

“David!” he cried. “Are ye daft? I cannae 
draw upon ye, David. It’s fair murder.” 

“That was your lookout when you insulted me,” 
said I. 


* A second sermon. 


226 


KIDNAPPED 


“It’s the truth!” cried Alan, and he stood for a 
moment, wringing his mouth in his hand like a man 
in sore perplexity. “It’s the bare truth,” he said, 
and drew his sword. But before I could touch his 
blade with mine, he had thrown it from him and 
fallen to the ground. “Na, na,” he kept saying, 
“na, na — I cannae, I cannae.” 

At this the last of my anger oozed all out of me; 
and I found myself only sick, and sorry, and blank, 
and wondering at myself. I would have given the 
world to take back what I had said; but a word 
once spoken, who can recapture it ? I minded me of 
all Alan’s kindness and courage in the past, how 
he had helped and cheered and borne with me in 
our evil days; and then recalled my own insults, 
and saw that I had lost forever that doughty friend. 
At the same time, the sickness that hung upon me 
seemed to redouble, and the pang in my side was like 
a sword for sharpness. I thought I must have 
swooned where I stood. 

This it was that gave me a thought. No apology 
could blot out what I had said; it was needless to 
think of one, none could cover the offense; but 
where an apology was vain, a mere cry for help 
might bring Alan back to my side. I put my pride 
away from me. “Alan!” I said; “if you cannae 
help me, I must just die here.” 

He started up sitting, and looked at me. 

“It’s true,” said I. “I’m by with it. O, let me 
get into the bield of a house — I’ll can die there 
easier.” I had no need to pretend; whether I 
chose or not, I spoke in a weeping voice that would 
have melted a heart of stone. 

“Can ye walk,” asked Alan. 

“No,” said I, “not without help. This last hour, 


KIDNAPPED 


227 


my legs have been fainting under me; I’ve a stitch 
in my side like a red-hot iron; I cannae breathe 
right. If I die, ye’ll can forgive me, Alan? In 
my heart, I liked ye fine — even when I was the 
angriest.” 

“Wheest, wheest!” cried Alan. “Dinnae say 
that! David, man, ye ken — ” He shut his mouth 
upon a sob. “Let me get my arm about ye,” he 
continued; “that’s the way. Now lean upon me 
hard. Gude kens where there’s a house! We’re 
in Balwhidder, too; there should be no want of 
houses, no, nor friends’ houses here. Do you gang 
easier so, Davie?” 

“Ay,” said I, “I can be doing this way”; and I 
pressed his arm with my hand. 

Again he came near sobbing. “Davie,” said 
he, “I’m no a right man at all; I have neither 
sense nor kindness; I couldnae remember ye were 
just a bairn, I couldnae see ye were dying on your 
feet; Davie, ye’ll have to try and forgive me.” 

“O, man, let’s say no more about it!” said I. 
“We’re neither one of us to mend the other — that’s 
the truth! We must just bear and forbear, man 
Alan ! O, but my stitch is sore ! Is there nae house ? 

“I’ll find a house to ye, David,” he said, stoutly. 
“We’ll follow down the burn, where there’s bound 
to be houses. My poor man, will ye no better be 
on my back?” 

“O, Alan,” says I, “and me a good twelve inches 
taller?” 

“Ye’re no such a thing,” cried Alan, with a start. 
“There may be a trifling matter of an inch or two; 
I’m no saying I’m just exactly what ye would call 
a tall man, whatever; and I dare say,” he added, 
his voice tailing off in a laughable manner, “now 


228 


KIDNAPPED 


when I come to think of it, I dare say ye’ll be just 
about right. Ay, it’ll be a foot, or nearhand; or 
maybe even mairi” 

It was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his 
words up in a fear of some fresh quarrel. I could 
have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so hard; 
but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too. 

“Alan,” cried I, “what makes ye so good to me? 
what makes ye care for such a thankless fellow?” 

“Deed, and I don’t know,” said Allen. “For 
just precisely what I thought I liked about ye, was 
that ye never quarreled — and now I like ye better! ” 


CHAPTER XXV 


IN BALQUIDDER 

At the door of the first house we came to, Alan 
knocked, which was no very safe enterprise in such 
a part of the Highlands as the Braes of Balquidder. 
No great clan held rule there; it was filled and dis- 
puted by small septs, and broken remnants, and 
what they call “chiefless folk,” driven into the wild 
country about the springs of Forth and Teith by the 
advance of the Campbells. Here were Stewarts 
and Maclarens, which came to the same thing, 
for the Maclarens followed Alan’s chief in war, and 
made but one clan with Appin. Here, too, were 
many of that old, proscribed, nameless, red-handed 
clan of the Macgregors. They had always been 
ill considered ,and now worse than ever, having 
credit with no side or party in the whole country of 
Scotland. Their chief, Macgregor of Macgregor, 
was in exile; the more immediate leader of that 
part of them about Balquidder, James More, Rob 
Roy’s eldest son, lay waiting his trial in Edinburgh 
Castle; they were in ill-blood with Highlander and 
Lowlander, with the Grahames, the Maclarens and 
the Stewarts: and Alan, who took up the quarrel 
of any friend, however distant, was extremely wish- 
ful to avoid them. 

Chance served us very well; for it was a house- 
hold of Maclarens that we found, where Alan was 

229 


230 


KIDNAPPED 


not only welcome for his name’s sake but known by 
reputation. Here, then, I was got to bed without 
delay, and a doctor fetched, who found me in a 
sorry plight. But whether because he was a very 
good doctor, or I a very young, strong man, I lay 
bedridden for no more than a week, and before a 
month I was able to take the road again with a good 
heart. 

All this time Alan would not leave me; though I 
often pressed him, and indeed his foolhardiness in 
staying was a common subject of outcry with the 
two or three friends that were let into the secret 
He hid by day in a hole of the braes under a little 
wood; and at night, when the coast was clear, would 
come into the house to visit me. I need not say if 
I was pleased to see him; Mrs. Maclaren, our hos- 
tess, thought nothing good enough for such a guest; 
and as Duncan Dhu (which was the name of our 
host) had a pair of pipes in his house and was much 
of a lover of music, the time of my recovery was 
quite a festival, and we commonly turned night 
into day. 

The soldiers let us be; although once a party of 
two companies and some dragoons went by in the 
bottom of the valley, where I could see them through 
the window as I lay in bed. What was much more 
astonishing, no magistrate came near me, and there 
was no question put of whence I came or whither 
I was going; and in that time of excitement, I was 
as free of all inquiry as though I had lain in a desert. 
Yet my presence was known before I left to all the 
people in Balquidder and the adjacent parts; many 
coming about the house on visits, and these (after 
the custom of the country) spreading the news 
among their neighbors. The bills, too, had now been 


KIDNAPPED 


231 


printed. There was one pinned near the foot of my 
bed, where I could read my own not very flattering 
portrait and, in larger characters, the amount of the 
blood-money that had been set upon my life. Dun- 
can Dhu and the rest that knew that I had come 
there in Alan’s company, could have entertained no 
doubt of who I was; and many others must have 
had their guess. For though I had changed my 
clothes, I could not change my age or person; and 
Lowland boys of eighteen were not so rife in these 
parts of the world, and above all about that time, 
that they could fail to put one thing with another 
and connect me with the bill. So it was, at least. 
Other folk keep a secret among two or three near 
friends, and somehow it leaks out; but among these 
clansmen, it is told to a whole countryside, and they 
will keep it for a century. 

There was but one thing happened worth narrat- 
ing; and that is the visit I had of Robin Oig, one 
of the sons of the notorious Rob Roy. He was 
sought upon all sides on a charge of carrying a young 
woman from Balfron and marrying her (as was 
alleged) by force; yet he stepped about Balquidder 
like a gentleman in his own walled policy. It was 
he who shot James Maclaren at the plough stilts, 
a quarrel never satisfied; yet he walked into the 
house of his blood enemies as a rider might into a 
public inn. 

Duncan had time to pass me word of who it was; 
and we looked at one another in concern. You 
should understand, it was then close upon the time 
of Alan’s coming; the two were little likely to agree; 
and yet if we sent word or sought to make a signal, 
it was sure to arouse suspicion in a man under so 
dark a cloud as the Macgregor. 


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KIDNAPPED 


He came in with a great show of civility, but like a 
man among inferiors; took off his bonnet to Mrs. 
Maclaren, but clapped it on his head again to speak 
to Duncan; and having thus set himself (as he 
would have thought) in a proper light, came to my 
bedside and bowed. 

“I am given to know, sir,” says he, “that your 
name is Balfour.” 

“They call me David Balfour,” said I, “at your 
service,” 

“I would give ye my name in return, sir,” he re- 
plied, “but it’s one somewhat blown upon of late 
days; and it’ll perhaps suffice if I tell ye that I am 
own brother to James More Drummond, or Mac- 
gregor, of whom ye will scarce have failed to hear.” 

“No, sir,” said I, a little alarmed; “nor yet of 
your father, Macgregor-Campbell.” And I sat up 
and bowed in bed, for I thought best to compliment 
him, in case he was proud of having had an outlaw 
to his father. 

He bowed in return. “But what I am come to 
say, sir,” he went on, “is this. In the year ’45, 
my brother raised a part of the ‘Gregara,’ and 
marched six companies to strike a stroke for the 
good side; and the surgeon that marched with our 
clan and cured my brother’s leg when it was broken 
in the brush at Preston Pans, was a gentleman of 
the same name precisely as yourself. He was 
brother to Balfour of Baith; and if you are in any 
reasonable degree of nearness one of that gentle- 
man’s kin, I have come to put myself and my people 
at your command.” 

You are to remember that I knew no more of my 
descent that any cadger’s dog; my uncle, to be sure, 
had prated of some of our high connections, but 


KIDNAPPED 


233 


nothing to the present purpose; and there was noth- 
ing left me but that bitter disgrace of owning that I 
could not tell. 

Robin told me shortly he was sorry he had put 
himself about, turned his back upon me without 
a sign of salutation, and as he went toward the door, 
I could hear him telling Duncan that I was ‘‘only 
some kinless loon that didn’t know his own father.” 
Angry as I was at these words and ashamed of my 
own ignorance, I could scarce keep from smiling 
that a man who was under the lash of the law (and 
was indeed hanged some three years later) should 
be so nice as to the descent of his acquaintances. 

Just in the door, he met Alan coming in; and the 
two drew back and looked at each other like strange 
dogs. They were neither of them big men, but they 
seemed fairly to swell out with pride. Each wore 
a sword, and by a movement of his haunch, thrust 
clear the hilt of it, so that it might be the more readily 
grasped and the blade drawn. 

“Mr. Stewart, I am thinking,” says Robin. 

“Troth, Mr. Macgregor, it’s not a name to be 
ashamed of,” answered Alan. 

“I did not know ye were in my country, sir,” 
says Robin. 

“It sticks in my mind that I am in the country of 
my friends the Maclarens,” says Alan. 

“That’s a kittle point,” returned the other. 
“There may be two words to say to that. But I 
think I will have heard that you are a man of your 
• sword?” 

“Unless ye were born deaf, Mr. Macgregor, ye 
will have heard a good deal more than that,” says 
Alan. “I am not the only man that can draw steel 
in Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, 


234 


KIDNAPPED 


Ardshiel, had a talk with a gentleman of your name, 
no so many years back, I could never hear that the 
Macgregor had the best of it.” 

“Do you mean my father, sir?” says Robin. 

“Well, I wouldnae wonder,” said Alan. “The 
gentleman I have in my mind had the ill-taste to clap 
Campbell to his name.” 

“My father was an old man,” returned Robin. 
“The match was unequal. You and me would 
make a better pair, sir.” 

“I was thinking that,” said Alan. 

I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been 
hanging at the elbow of these fighting cocks, ready 
to intervene upon the least occasion. But when 
that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; 
and Duncan, with something of a white face to be 
sure, thrust himself between. 

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will have been thinking 
of a very different matter, whatever. Here are my 
pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who are 
baith acclaimed pipers. It’s an auld dispute which 
one of ye’s the best. Here will be a braw chance 
to settle it.” 

“Why, sir,” said Alan, still addressing Robin, 
from whom indeed he had not so much as shifted 
his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, “why, sir,” says 
Alan, “I think I will have heard some sough of the 
sort. Have ye music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of 
a piper?” 

“I can pipe like a Macrimmon!” cries Robin. 

“And that is a very bold word,” quoth Alan. 

“I have made bolder words good before now,” 
returned Robin, “and that against better adver- 
saries.” 

“It is easy to try that,” says Alan. 


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235 


Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of 
pipes that was his principal possession, and to set 
before his guests a muttonham and a bottle of that 
drink which they call Athole brose, and which is 
made of old whiskey, strained honey and sweet 
cream, slowly beaten together in the right order and 
proportion. The two enemies were still on the very 
breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each 
side of the peat fire, with a mighty show of polite- 
nessj Maclaren pressed them to taste his mutton- 
ham and “the wife’s brose,” reminding them the 
wife was out of Athole and had a name far and wide 
for her skill in that confection. But Robin put 
aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath. 

“I would have ye to remark, sir,” said Alan, 
“that I havenae broken bread for near upon ten 
hours, which will be worse for the breath than any 
brose in Scotland.” 

“I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart,” replied 
Robin. “Eat and drink; I’ll follow you.” 

Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a 
glass of the brose to Mrs. Maclaren; and then, 
after a great number of civilities, Robin took the 
pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting 
manner. 

“Ay, ye can blow,” said Alan; and taking the 
instrument from his rival, he first played the same 
spring in a manner identical with Robin’s; and 
then wandered into variations, which, as he went 
on, he decorated with a perfect flight of grace notes, 
such as pipers love, and call the “warblers.” 

I had been pleased with Robin’s playing. Alan’s 
ravished me. 

“That’s no very bad, Mr. Stewart,” said the rival, 
“but ye show a poor device in your warbler.” 


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KIDNAPPED 


“Me!” cried Alan, the blood starting to his 
face. “I give ye the lie.” 

“Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then,” 
said Robin, “that ye seek to change them for the 
sword?” 

“And that’s very well said, Mr. Macgregor,” 
returned Alan; “and in the meantime” (laying 
strong accent on the word) “I take back the lie. 
I appeal to Duncan.” 

“Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody,” said Robin. 
“Ye’re a far better judge than any Maclaren in 
Balwhidder; for it’s a God’s truth that you’re a 
very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the 
pipes.” 

Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to 
imitate and correct some part of Alan’s variations, 
which it seemed that he remembered perfectly. 

“Ay, ye have music,” said Alan, gloomily. 

“And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart,” 
said Robin; and taking up the variations from the 
beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a 
purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and 
with so odd a fancy and so quick a knack in the 
grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him. 

As for Alan, his face grew dark and hot, and he 
sat and gnawed his fingers like a man under some 
deep affront. “Enough!” he cried. “Ye can blow 
the pipes — make the most of that.” And he made 
as if to rise. 

But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for 
silence, and struck into the slow music of a pibroch. It 
was a fine piece of music in itself, and nobly played ; but 
it seems besides it was a piece peculiar to the Appin 
Stewarts and a chief favorite with Alan. The first 
notes were scarce out, before there came a change 


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237 


in his face; when the time quickened, he seemed to 
grow restless in his seat; and long before that piece 
was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from 
him, and he had no thought but for the music. 

“Robin Oig,” he said, when it was done, “ye 
are a great piper. I am not fit to blow in the same 
kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have mair music 
in your sporran than I have in my head! And 
though it still sticks in my mind that I could maybe 
show ye another of it with the cold steel, I warn ye 
beforehand — it’ll no be fair! It would go against 
my heart to haggle a man that can blow the pipes 
as you can!” 

Thereupon the quarrel was made up; all night 
long the brose was going and the pipes changing 
hands; and the day had come pretty bright, and the 
three men were none the better for what they had 
been taking, before Robin as much as thought upon 
the road. 

It was the last I saw of him, for I was in the Low 
Countries at the University of Leyden when he 
stood his trial, and was hanged in the Grassmarket. 
And I have told this at so great length, partly because 
it was the last incident of any note that befell me 
on the wrong side of the Highland Line, and partly 
because (as the man came to be hanged) it’s in a 
manner history. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

WE PASS THE FORTH 

The month, as I have said, was not yet out, but 
it was already far through August, and beautiful 
warm weather, with every sign of an early and great 
harvest, when I was pronounced able for my journey. 
Our ipojiey was now run to so low an ebb that we 
mtist think first of all on speed; for if we came not 
soon to Mr. Rankeillor’s or if when we came there 
he 'should fail to help me, we must surely starve. 
In Alan’s view, besides, the hunt must have^now 
greatly slackened; and the line of the Forth, and 
even Stirling Bridge, which is the main pass over 
that river, would be watched with little interest. 

“It’s a chief principle in military affairs,” said he, 
“to go where ye are least expected. Forth is our 
trouble; ye ken the saying, ‘Forth bridles the wild 
Hielandman.’ Well, if we seek to creep round 
about the head of that river and come down by 
Kippen or Balfron, it’s just precisely there that 
they’ll be looking to lay hands on us. But if we 
stave on straight to the auld Brig’ of Stirling, I’ll 
lay my sword they let us pass unchallenged.” 

The first riight, accordingly, we pushed to the 
house of a Maclaren in Strathire, a friend of Dun- 
can’s, where we slept the twenty-first of the month, 
and whence we set -forth again about the fall of 
night to make another easy stage. The twenty- 

* 238 


KIDNAPPED 


239 


second we lay in a heather-bush on a hillside in Uam 
Var, within view of a herd of deer, the happiest ten 
hours of sleep in a fine, breathing sunshine and on 
bone dry ground, that I have ever tasted. That 
night we struck Allan Water, and followed it down; 
and coming to the edge of the hills saw the whole 
Carse of Stirling underfoot, as flat as a pancake, 
with the town and castle on a hill in the midst of it, 
and the moon shining on the links of Forth. 

“Now,” said Alan, “Ivkenna if ye care, but ye’re 
in your own land again. We passed the Hieland 
Line in the first hour; and now if we could but pass 
yon crooked water, we might cast our bonnets in 
the air.” 

In Allan Water, near by where it falls into the 
Forth, we found a little sandy islet, overgrown with 
burdock, butterbur, and the like low plants, that 
would just cover us if we lay flat. Here it was 
we made our camp, within plain view of Stirling 
Castle, whence we could hear the drums beat as 
some part of the garrison paraded. Shearers worked 
all day in a* field on one side of the river, and we could 
hear the stones going on the hooks and the voices 
and even the words of the men talking. It behooved 
to lie close and keep silent. But the sand of the 
little isle was sun-warm, the green plants gave us 
shelter for our heads, we had food and drink in plenty 
and to crown all* -we were within sight of safety. 

As soon as the shearers quit their work and the 
dusk began to fall, we waded ashore and struck for 
the Bridge of Stirling, keeping to the fields and un- 
der .the field fences. 

The bridge is close under the castle hill, an old, 
high, narrow bridge with pinnacles along the para- 
pet; and you may conceive with how much interest 


240 


KIDNAPPED 


I looked upon it, not only as a place famous in his- 
tory, but as the very doors of salvation to Alan and 
myself. The moon was not yet up when we came 
there; a few lights shone along the front of the 
fortress, and lower down a few lighted windows 
in the town; but it was all mighty still, and there 
seemed to be no guard upon the passage. 

I was for pushing straight across; but Alan was 
more wary. 

“It looks unco quiet,” said he; “but for all that 
we’ll lie down here cannily behind a dyke, and make 
sure.” 

So we lay for about a quarter of an hour, whiles 
whispering, whiles lying still and hearing nothing 
earthly but the washing of the water on the piers. 
At last there came by an old, hobbling woman with 
a crutch stick; who first stopped a little, close to 
where we lay, and bemoaned herself and the long 
way she had traveled; and then set forth again up 
the steep spring of the bridge. The woman was 
so little, and the night still so dark, that we soon lost 
sight of her; only heard the sound of her steps, and 
her stick, and a cough that she had by fits, draw 
slowly farther away. 

“She’s bound to be across now,” I whispered. 

“Na,” said Alan, “her foot still sounds boss* 
upon the bridge.” 

And just then — “Who goes?” cried a voice, and 
we heard the butt of a musket rattle on the stones. 
I must suppose the sentry had been sleeping, so 
that had we tried, we might have passed unseen; 
but he was awake now, and the chance forfeited. 

“This ’ll never do,” said Alan. “This ’ll never, 
never do for us, David.” 

* Hollow. 


KIDNAPPED 


241 


And without another word, he began to crawl 
away through the fields; and a little after, being 
well out of eye-shot, got to his feet again, and struck 
along a road that led to the eastward. I could not 
conceive what he was doing, and indeed I was so 
sharply cut by the disappointment, that I was little 
likely to be pleased with anything. A moment 
back, and I had seen myself knocking at Mr. Ran- 
keillor’s door to claim my inheritance, like a hero 
in a ballad; and here was I back again, a wander- 
ing, hunted blackguard, on the wrong side of Forth. 
“Well?” said I. 

“Well,” said Alan, “what would ye have? They’re 
none such fools as I took them for. We have still 
the Forth to pass, Davie — weary fall the rains that 
fed and the hillsides that guided it!” 

“And why go east?” said I. 

“Ou, just upon the chance!” said he. “If we 
cannae pass the river, we’ll have to see what we can 
do for the firth.” 

“There are fords upon the river, and none upon 
the firth,” said I. 

“To be sure there are fords, and a bridge forby,” 
quoth Alan; “and of what service, when they are 
watched?” 

“Well,” said I, “but a river can be swum.” 

“By them that have the skill of it,” returned he; 
“but I have yet to hear that either you or me is much 
of a hand at that exercise; and for my own part, 
I swim like a stone.” 

“I am not up to you in talking back, Alan,” 
I said; “but I can see we’re making bad worse. 
If it’s hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it 
must be worse to pass a sea.” 

“But there’s such a thing as a boat,” says Alan, 
“or I’m the more deceived.” 


242 


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“Ay, and such a thing as money,” says I. “But 
for us that have neither one nor other, they might 
just as well not have been invented.’’ 

“Ye think so?” said Alan. 

“I do that,” said I. 

“David,” says he, “ye’re a man of small inven- 
tion and less faith. But let me set my wits upon the 
hone, and if I cannae beg, borrow, nor steal a boat, 
I’ll make one!” 

“I think I see ye!” said I. “And what’s more 
than all that: if ye pass a bridge, it can tell no tales; 
but if we pass the firth, there’s the boat on the wrong 
side — somebody must have brought it — the 
countryside will all be in a bizz ” 

“Man!” cried Alan, “if I make a boat, I’ll make 
a body to take it back again! So deave me with 
no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that’s 
what you’ve got to do) — and let Alan think for 
ye.” 

All night, then, we walked through the north side 
of the Carse under the high line of the Ochil moun- 
tains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and Cul- 
ross, all of which we avoided; and about ten in the 
morning, mighty hungry and tired, came to the 
little clachan of Limekilns. This is a place that 
sits near in by the waterside, and looks across the 
Hope to the town of Queensferry. Smoke went 
up from both of these, and from other villages and 
farms upon all hands. The fields were being reaped ; 
two ships lay anchored and boats were coming and 
going on the Hope. It was altogether a right 
pleasant sight to me; and I could not take my fill 
of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated 
hills and the busy people both of the field and sea. 

For all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor’s house on 


KIDNAPPED 


243 


the south shore, where I had no doubt wealth awaited 
me; and here was I upon the north, clad in poor 
enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three 
silver shillings left to me of all my fortune, a price 
set upon my head, and an outlawed man for my 
sole company. 

“O, Alan!” said I, “to think of it! Over there, 
there’s all that heart could want waiting me; and 
the birds go over, and the boats go over — all that 
please can go, but just me only! O, man, but 
it’s a heartbreak!” 

In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, 
which we only knew to be a public by the wand over 
the door, and bought some bread and cheese from 
a good-looking lass that was the servant. This 
we carried with us in a bundle, meaning to sit and 
eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore, that we saw 
some third part of a mile in front. As we went, I 
kept looking across the water, and sighing to my- 
self; and though I took no heed of it, Alan had 
fallen into a muse. At last he stopped in the way. 

“Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?” 
says he, tapping on the bread and cheese. 

“To be sure,” said I, “and a bonny lass she was.” 

“Ye thought that?” cries he. “Man David, 
that’s good news.” 

“In the name of all that’s wonderful, why so?” 
says I. “What good can that do?” 

“Well,” said Alan, with one of his droll looks, 
“I was rather in hopes it would maybe get us that 
boat.” 

“If it were the other way about, it would be liker 
it,” said I. 

“That’s all that you ken, ye see,” said Alan. 
“I don’t want the lass to fall in love with ye, I want 


244 


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her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end, there 
is no manner of need that she should take you for 
a beauty. Let me see” (looking me curiously 
over). “I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but 
apart from that ye’ll do fine for my purpose — ye 
have a fine, hang-dog, rag-and-tatter, clapper- 
maclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had stolen the 
coat from a potato-bogle. Come; right about, 
and back to the change-house for that boat of ours.” 

I followed him laughing. 

“David Balfour,” said he, “ye’re a very funny 
gentleman by your way of it, and this is a very funny 
employ for ye, no doubt. For all that, if ye have 
any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your 
own) ye will perhaps be kind enough to take this 
matter responsibly. I am going to do a bit of play- 
acting, the bottom ground of which is just exactly 
as serious as the gallows for the pair of us. So bear 
it, if ye please, in mind, and conduct yourself ac- 
cording.” 

“Well, well,” said I, “have it as you will.” 

As we got near the clachan, he made me take his 
arm and hang upon it like one almost helpless with 
weariness; and by the time he pushed open the 
change-house door, he seemed to be half carrying me. 
The maid appeared surprised (as well she might be) 
at our speedy return; but Alan had no words to 
spare for her in explanation, helped me to a chair, 
called for a tass of brandy with which he fed me 
in little sips, and then breaking up the bread and 
cheese helped me to eat it like a nursery lass; the 
whole with that grave, concerned, affectionate 
countenance, that might have imposed upon a judge. 
It was small wonder if the maid were taken with 
the picture we presented, of a poor, sick, overwrought 


KIDNAPPED 


245 


lad and his most tender comrade. She drew quite 
near, and stood leaning with her back on the next 
table. 

“What’s like wrong with him?” said she at last. 

Alan turned upon her, to my great wonder, with 
a kind of fury. “ Wrong ? ” cries he. “ He’s walked 
more hundreds of miles than he has hairs upon his 
chin, and slept oftener in wet heather than dry 
sheets. Wrong, quo’ she? Wrong enough, I 
would think! Wrong, indeed!” and he kept grum- 
bling to himself, as he fed me, like a man ill-pleased. 

“He’s young for the like of that,” said the maid. 

“Ower young,” said Alan, with his back to her. 

“He would be better riding,” says she. 

“And where could I get a horse for him?” cried 
Alan, turning on her with the same appearance of 
fury. “Would ye have me steal?” 

I thought this roughness would have sent her off 
in dudgeon, as indeed it closed her mouth for the 
time. But my companion knew very well what he 
was doing; and for as simple as he was in some 
things of life, had a great fund of roguishness in such 
affairs as these. 

“Ye neednae tell me,” she said at last — “ye’re 
gentry.” 

“Well,” said Alan, softened a little (I believe 
against his will) by this artless comment, “and 
suppose we were? did ever you hear that gentrice 
put money in folk’s pockets?” 

She sighed at this, as if she were herself some dis- 
inherited great lady. “No,” says she, “that’s true 
indeed.” 

I was all this while chafing at the part I played, 
and sitting tongue-tied between shame and merri- 
ment; but somehow at this I could hold in no longer, 


246 


KIDNAPPED 


and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. 
My voice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take 
part in lies; but my very embarrassment helped on 
the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my husky 
voice to sickness and fatigue. - 

“Has he nae friends?” said she, in a tearful voice. 

“That has he so,” cried Alan, “if we could but 
win to them ! — friends and rich friends, beds to 
lie in, food to eat, doctors to see him — and here 
he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather 
like a beggarman.” 

“And why that?” says the lass. 

“My dear,” says Alan, “I cannae very safely 
say; but I’ll tell ye what I’ll do instead,” says he, 
“I’ll whistle ye a bit tune.” And with that he 
leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath 
of a whistle, but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, 
gave her a few bars of “Charlie is my darling.” 

“Wheest,” says she, and looked over her shoulder 
to the door. 

. “That’s it,” said Alan. 

“And him so young!” cried the lass. 

“He’s old enough to ” and Alan struck his 

forefinger on the back part of his neck, meaning that 
I was old enough to lose my head. 

“It would be a black shame,” she cried, flushing 
high. 

“It’s what will be, though,” said Alan, “unless 
we manage the better.” 

At this the lass tourned and ran out of that part of 
the house, leaving us alone together, Alan in high 
good humor at the furthering of his schemes, and I 
in bitter dugdeon at being called a Jacobite and 
treated like a child. 

“Alan,” I cried, “I can stand no more of this.” 


KIDNAPPED 


247 


“ Ye’ll have to sit it then, Davie,” said he. “For 
if ye upset the pot now, ye may scrape your own life 
out of the fire, but Alan Breck is a dead man.” 

This was so true that I could only groan; and 
even my groan served Alan’s purpose, for it was over- 
heard by the lass as she came flying in again with 
a dish of white puddings and a bottle of strong ale. 

“Poor lamb!” says she, and had no sooner set 
the meat before us, than she touched me on the 
shoulder with a little friendly touch, as much as to 
bid me cheer up. Then she told us to fall to, and 
there would be no more to pay; for the inn was her 
own, or at least her father’s, and he was gone for 
the day to Pittencrieff. We waited for no second 
bidding, for bread and cheese is but cold comfort, 
and the puddings smelt excellently well; and while 
we sat and ate, she took up that same place by the 
next table, looking on, and thinking, and frowning to 
herself, and drawing the string of her apron through 
her hand. 

“I’m thinking ye have rather a long tongue,” 
she said at last to Alan. 

“Ay,” said Alan; “but ye see I ken the folk I 
speak to.” 

“I would never betray ye,” said she, “if ye mean 
that.” 

“No,” said he, “ye’re not that kind. But I’ll 
tell ye what ye would do, ye would help.” 

“I couldnae,” said she, shaking her head. “Na, 
I couldnae.” 

“No,” said he, “but if ye could?” 

She answered him nothing. 

“Look here, my lass,” said Alan, “there are 
boats in the kingdom of Fife, for I saw two (no less) 
upon the beach, as I came in by your town’s end. 


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Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass 
under cloud of night into Lothian, and some secret, 
decent kind of a man to bring that boat back again 
and keep his counsel, there would be two souls 
saved — mine to all likelihood — his to a dead 
surety. If we lack that boat, we have but three 
shillings left in this wide world; and where to go, 
and how to do, and what other place there is for 
us except the chains of a gibbet — I give you my 
naked word, I kenna ! Shall we go wanting, lassie ? 
Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, 
when the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain 
tirls on the roof? Are ye to eat your ipeat by the 
cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick 
lad of mine, biting his finger-ends on a blae muir 
for cauld and hunger? Sick or sound, he must aye 
be moving; with the death -grapple at his throat, 
he must aye be trailing in the rain on the long 
roads; and when he gants his last on a rickle of 
cauld stanes, there will be nae friends near him but 
only me and God.” 

At this appeal, I could see the lass was in great 
trouble of mind, being tempted to help us, and yet 
in some fear she might be helping malefactors; 
and so now I determined to step in myself and to 
allay her scruples with a portion of the truth. 

“Did you ever hear,” said I, “of Mr. Rankeillor of 
the Queensf erry ? ” 

“Rankeillor the writer?” said she. “I dare say 
that!” 

“Well,” said I, “it’s to his door that I am bound, 
so you may judge by that if I am an ill-doer; and I 
will tell you more, that though I am indeed, by a 
dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George 
has no truer friend in all Scotland than myself.” 


KIDNAPPED 


249 


Her face cleared up mightily at this, although 
Alan’s darkened. 

“That’s more than I would ask,” said she. “Mr. 
Rankeillor is a kennt man.” And she bade us finish 
our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon as might 
be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach. 
“And ye can trust me,” says she, “I’ll find some 
means to put you over.” 

At this we waited for no more, but shook hands 
with her upon the bargain, made short work of the 
puddings, and set forth again, from Limekilns as 
far as to the wood. It was a small piece of perhaps 
a score of elders and hawthorns, and a few young 
ashes, not thick enough to veil us from passers-by 
upon the road or beach. Here we must lie, however, 
making the best of the brave warm weather and the 
good hopes we now had of a deliverance, and plan- 
ning more particularly what remained for us to do. 

We had but one trouble all day; when a strolling 
piper came and sat in the same wood with us; a 
red-nosed, blear-eyed drunken dog, with a great 
bottle of whiskey in his pocket, and a long story of 
wrongs that had been done him by all sorts of per- 
sons, from the Lord President of the Court of Ses- 
sion, who had denied him justice, down to the 
Baillies of Inverkeithing who had given him more 
of it than he desired. It was impossible but he should 
conceive some suspicion of two men lying all day 
concealed in a thicket and having no business to 
allege. As long as he stayed there, he kept us in 
hot water with prying questions; and after he was 
gone, as he was a man not very likely to hold his 
tongue, we were in the greater impatience to be 
gone ourselves. 

The day came to an end with the same brightness; 


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KIDNAPPED 


the night fell quiet and clear; lights came out in 
houses and hamlets and then, one after another, 
began to be put out; but it was past eleven, and we 
were long since strangely tortured with anxieties, 
before we heard the grinding of oars upon the rowing- 
pins. At that we looked out and saw the lass her- 
self coming rowing to us in a boat. She had trusted 
no one with our affairs, not even her sweetheart, 
if she had one; but as soon as her father was asleep, 
had left the house by a window, stolen a neighbor’s 
boat, and come to our assistance single-handed. 

I was abashed how to find expression for my 
thanks; but she was no less abashed at the thought 
of hearing them; begged us to lose no time and to 
hold our peace, saying (very properly) that the heart 
of our matter was in haste and silence; and so, what 
with one thing and another, she had set us on the 
Lothian shore not far from- Carriden, had shaken 
hands, with us, and was out again at sea and rowing 
for Limekilns, before there was one word said either 
of her service or our gratitude. 

Even after she was gone we had nothing to say, 
as indeed nothing was enough for such a kindness. 
Only Alan stood a great while upon the shore shak- 
ing his head. 

“It is a very fine lass,” he said at last. “David, 
it is a very fine lass.” And a matter of an hour 
later, as we were lying in a den on the seashore 
and I had been already dozing, he broke out again 
in commendations of her character. For my part, 
I could say nothing, she was so simple a creature 
that my heart smote me both with remorse and fear; 
remorse, because we had traded upon her ignorance; 
and fear, lest we should have any way involved her 
in the dangers of our situation. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR 

The next day it was agreed that Alan should fend 
for himself till sunset; but as soon as it began to 
grow dark, he should lie in the fields by the roadside 
near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he heard 
me whistling. At first, I proposed I should give him 
for signal the “Bonnie House of Airlie,” which was 
a favorite of mine; but he objected that as the piece 
was very commonly known, any ploughman might 
whistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little 
fragment of a Highland air, which has run in my head 
from that day to this, and will likely run in my head 
when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me it takes 
me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan 
sitting up in the bottom of the den, whistling and 
beating the measure with a finger, and the gray of 
the dawn coming on his face. 

I was in the long street of Queensferry before the 
sun was up. It was a fairly built burgh, the houses 
of good stone, many slated; the town-hall not so 
fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street 
so noble; but take it altogether, it put me to shame 
for my foul tatters. 

As the morning went on, and the fires began to be 
kindled, and the windows to open, and the people 
to appear out of the houses, my concern and de- 
spondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that 

251 


252 


KIDNAPPED 


I had no grounds to stand upon; and no clear 
proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own identity. 
If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated 
and left in a sore pass. Even if things were as I 
conceived, it would in all likelihood take time to 
establish my contentions; and what time had I to 
spare with three shillings in my pocket, and a con- 
demned, hunted man upon my hands to ship out 
of the country? Truly, if my hope broke with me, 
it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And 
as I continued to walk up and down, and saw people 
look askance at me upon the street or out of windows, 
and nudging or speaking one to another with smiles, 
I began to take fresh apprehension; that it might 
be no easy matter even to come to speech of the 
lawyer, far less to convince him of my story. 

For the life of me I could not muster up the 
courage to address any of these reputable burghers; 
I thought shame even to speak with them in such 
a pickle of rags and dirt; and* if I had asked for 
the house of such a man as Mr. Rankeillor, I sup- 
posed they would have burst out laughing in my 
face. So I went up and down, and through the 
street, and down to the harbor-side like a dog that 
has lost its master, with a strange gnawing in my 
inwards, and every now and then a movement of 
despair. It grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine 
in the forenoon; and I was worn with these wander- 
ings, and chanced to have stopped in front of a very 
good house on the landward side, a house with 
beautiful, clear glass windows, flowering knots upon 
the sills, the walls new-harled,* and a chase-dog 
sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. 
Well, I was even envying this dumb brute, when 

* Newly rough-cast. 


KIDNAPPED 


253 


the door fell open and there issued forth a little shrewd , 
ruddy, kindly consequential man in a well-powdered 
wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no 
one set eyes on me once but he looked at me again; 
and this gentleman, as it proved, was so much 
struck with my poor appearance that he came 
straight up to me and asked me what I did. 

I told him I was come to the Queensferry on 
business, and taking heart of grace, asked him to 
direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor. 

“Why,” said he, “that is his house that I have 
just come out of; and for a rather singular chance, 
I am that very man.” 

“Then, sir,” said I, “I have to beg the favor of 
an interview.” 

“I do not know your name,” said he “nor yet your 
face.” 

“My name is David Balfour,” said I. 

“David Balfour?” he repeated, in rather a high 
tone, like one surprised. “And where have you 
come from, Mr. David Balfour?” he asked, looking 
at me pretty dryly in the face. 

“I have come from a great many strange places, 
sir,” said I; “but I think it would be as well to tell 
you where and how in a more private manner.” 

He seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his 
hand, and looking now at me and now upon the 
causeway of the street. 

“Yes,” says he, “that will be the best, no doubt.” 
And he led me back with him into his house, cried 
out to some one whom I could not see that he would 
be engaged all morning, and brought me into a 
little dusty chamber full of books and documents. 
Here he sat down, and bade me be seated; though 
I thought he looked a little ruefully from his clean 


254 


KIDNAPPED 


chair to my muddy rags. “And now,” says he, 
“if you have any business, pray be brief and come 
swiftly to the point. Nec germino helium Trojanum 
orditur ab ovo — do you understand that?” says he, 
with a keen look. 

“I will even do as Horace says, sir,” I answered, 
smiling, “and carry you in medias res” He 
nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed his 
scrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all 
that, and though I was somewhat encouraged, the 
blood came in my face when I added: “I have 
reason to believe myself some rights on the estate 
of Shaws.” 

He got a paper book out of a drawer and set it 
before him open. “Well?” said he. 

But I had shot my bolt and sat speechless. 

“Come, come, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “you must 
continue. Where were you born?” 

“In Essendean, sir,” said I, “in the year 1734, 
the 12th of March.” 

He seemed to follow this statement in his paper 
book; but what that meant I knew not. “Your 
father and mother?” said he. 

“My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster 
of that place,” said I, “and my mother Grace Pit- 
arrow; I think her people were from Angus.” 

“Have you any papers proving your identity?” 
asked Mr. Rankeillor. 

“No, sir,” said I, “but they are in the hands of 
Mr. Campbell, the minister, and could be readily 
produced. Mr, Campbell, too, would give me his 
word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle 
would deny me.” 

“Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?” says he. 

“The same,” said I. 


KIDNAPPED 


255 


“Whom you have seen?” he asked. 

“By whom I was received in his own house,” I 
answered. 

“Did you ever meet a man of the name of Ho- 
season?” asked Mr. Rankeillor. 

“I did so, sir, for my sins,” said I; “for it was by 
his means and the procurement of my uncle, that 
I was kidnapped within sight of this town, carried 
to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hard- 
ships, and stand before you to-day in this poor 
accoutrement.” 

“You say you were shipwrecked,” said Rankeillor; 
“where was that?” 

“Off the south end of the Isle of Mull,” said I. 
“The name of the isle on which I was cast up is the 
island Earraid.” 

“Ah!” said he smiling, “you are deeper than me 
in the geography. But so far, I may tell you, this 
agrees pretty exactly with other information that I 
hold. But, you say you were kidnapped; in what 
sense?” 

“In the plain meaning of the word, sir,” said I. 
“I was on my way to your house, when I was tre- 
panned on board the brig, cruelly struck down, 
thrown below, and knew no more of anything till 
we were far at sea. I was destined for the planta- 
tions; a fate that, in God’s providence, I have es- 
caped.” 

“The brig was lost on June the 27th,” says he, 
looking in his book, “and we are now at August 
the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr. Bal- 
four, of near upon two months. It has already 
caused a vast amount of trouble to your friends; 
and I own I shall not be very well contented until 
it is set right.” 


256 


KIDNAPPED 


“Indeed, sir,” said I, “these months are very 
easily filled up; but yet before I told my story, I 
would be glad to know that I was talking to a friend.” 

“This is to argue in a circle,” said the lawyer. 
“I cannot be convinced till I have heard you. I 
cannot be your friend until I am properly informed. 
If you were more trustful it would better befit your 
time of life. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have 
a proverb in the country that evil-doers are aye 
evil-dreaders.” 

“You are not to forget, sir,” said I, “that I have 
already suffered by my trustfulness; and was shipped 
off to be a slave by the very man that (if I rightly 
understand) is your employer.” 

All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. 
Rankeillor, and in proportion as I gained ground, 
gaining confidence. But at this sally, which I made 
with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed 
aloud. 

“No, no,” said he, “it is not so bad as that. Fui, 
non sum. I was indeed your uncle’s man of business ; 
but while you (imberbis juvenis custode remold) were 
gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water has 
run under the bridges; and if your ears did not 
sing, it was not for lack of being talked about. On 
the very day of your sea disaster, Mr. Campbell 
stalked into my office, demanding you from all the 
winds. I had never heard of your existence; but 
I had known your father; and from matters in my 
competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was 
disposed to fear the worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted 
having seen you; declared (what seemed improb- 
able) that he had given you considerable sums; 
and that you had started for the continent of Europe, 
intending to fulfill your education, which was 


KIDNAPPED 


257 


probable and praiseworthy. Interrogated how you 
had come to send no word to Mr. Campbell, he 
deponed that you had expressed a great desire to 
break with your past life. Farther interrogated 
where you now were, protested ignorance, but be- 
lieved you were in Leyden. That is a close sum of 
his replies. I am not exactly sure that any one be- 
lieved him,” continued Mr. Rankeillor with a smile; 
“and in particular he so much disrelished some 
expressions of mine that (in a word) he showed me 
to the door. We were then at a full stand; for 
whatever shrewd suspicions we might entertain, 
we had no shadow of probation. In the very 
article, comes Captain Hoseason with the story of 
your drowning; where upon all fell through; 
with no consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, 
injury to my pocket, and another blot upon your 
uncle’s character, which could very ill afford it. 
And now, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “you understand 
the whole process of these matters, and can judge 
for yourself to what extent I may be trusted.” 

Indeed he was more pedantic than I can repre- 
sent him, and placed more scraps of Latin in his 
speech; but it was all uttered with a fine geniality 
of eye and .manner which went far to conquer my 
distrust. Moreover, I could see he now treated me 
as if I was myself beyond a doubt; so that first point 
of my identity seemed fully granted. 

“Sir,” said I, “if I tell you my story, I must com- 
mit a friend’s life to your discretion. Pass me your 
word it shall be sacred; and for what touches my- 
self, I will ask no better guarantee than just your 
face.” 

He passed me his word very seriously. “But,” 
said he, “these are rather alarming prolocutions; 


KIDNAPPED 


258 

and if there are in your story any little justles to the 
law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a 
lawyer, and pass lightly.” 

Thereupon I told him my story from the first, 
he listening with his spectacles thrust up and his 
eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared he was asleep. 
But no such matter! he heard every word (as I 
found afterward) with such quickness of hearing and 
precision of memory as often surprised me. Even 
strange, outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that time 
only, he remembered and would remind me of years 
after. Yet when I called Alan Breck in full, we had 
an odd scene. The name of Alan had of course 
rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin 
murder and the offer of the reward ; and it had no 
sooner escaped me than the lawyer moved in his 
seat and opened his eyes. 

“I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Bal- 
four,” said he; “above all, of Highlanders, many 
of whom are obnoxious to the law.” 

“Well, it might have been better not,” said I; 
“but since I have let it slip, I may as well continue.” 

“Not at all,” said Mr. Rankeillor. “I am some- 
what dull of hearing, as you may have remarked; 
and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly. 
We will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thom- 
son — that there may be no reflections. And in 
future, I would take some such way with any High- 
lander that you may have to mention — dead or 
alive.” 

By this, I saw he must have heard the name all 
too clearly and had already guessed I might be 
coming to the murder. If he chose to play this 
part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I 
smiled, said it was no very Highland sounding name, 


KIDNAPPED 


259 


and consented. Through all the rest of my story 
Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the 
more, as it was a piece of policy after his own heart. 
James Stewart, in like manner, was mentioned 
under the style of Mr. Thomson’s kinsman; Colin 
Campbell passed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, 
when I came to that part of my tale, I gave the 
name of “Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief.” It was 
truly the most open farce, and I wondered that the 
lawyer should care to keep it up; but after it all 
was quite in the taste of that age, when there were 
two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no 
very high opinions of their own, sought out every 
cranny to avoid offense to either. 

“Well, well,” said the lawyer, when I had quite 
done, “this is a great epic, a great Odyssey of yours. 
You must tell it, sir, in a sound Latinity when your 
scholarship is riper; or in English, if you please, 
though for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. 
You have rolled much; quae regio in terris — what 
parish in Scotland (to make a homely) translation 
has not been filled with your wanderings: You have 
shown besides a singular aptitude for getting into 
false positions; and, yes, upon the whole, for be- 
having well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems to 
me a gentleman of some choice qualities, though 
perhaps a trifle bloody-minded. It would please 
me none the worse, if (with all his merits) he were 
soused in the North Sea; for the man, Mr. David, 
is a sore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite 
right to adhere to him; indubitably, he adhered to 
you. It comes — we may say — he was your 
true companion; nor less, paribus curis vestigai 
figit , for I dare say you would both take an orra 
thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these days 


26 o 


KIDNAPPED 


are fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) 
that you are near the end of your troubles.” 

As he thus moralized on my adventures, he looked 
upon me with so much humor and benignity that I 
could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had been 
so long wandering with lawless people, and making 
my bed upon the hills and under the bare sky that 
to sit once more in a clean, covered house, and to 
talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, 
seemed mighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my 
eye fell on my unseemly tatters, and I was once more 
plunged into confusion. But the lawyer saw 
and understood me. He rose, called over the stair 
to lay another plate, for Mr. Balfour would stay to 
dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the upper 
part of the house. Here he set before me water 
and soap and a comb; and laid out some clothes that 
belonged to his son; and here, with another oppo- 
site tag, he left me to my toilet. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE 

Here I made what change I could in my ap- 
pearance; and blithe I was to look in the glass and 
find fhe beggarman a thing of the past, and David 
Balfour come to life again. And yet I was ashamed 
of the change, too, and above all, of the borrowed 
clothes. When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught 
me on the stair, made me his compliments, and had 
me again into the cabinet. 

“Sit ye down, Mr. David,” said he, “and now 
that you are looking a little more like yourself, let 
me see if I can find you any news. You will be 
wondering, no doubt, about your father and your 
uncle? To be sure, it is a singular tale; and the 
explanation is one that I blush to have to offer you. 
For,” says he, really with embarrassment, “the 
matter hinges on a love affair.” 

“Truly,” said I, “I cannot very well join that 
notion with my uncle.” 

“But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always 
old,” replied the lawyer, “and what may perhaps 
surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine, 
gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after 
him, as he went by upon a mettle horse. I have 
seen it with these eyes, and I ingenuously confess, 
not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad 
myself and a plain man’s son; and in those days, 
it was a case of Odi tel qui bellus es, Sabelle” 

261 


262 


KIDNAPPED 


“It sounds like a dream,” said I. 

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer, “that is how it is with 
youth and age. Nor was that all, but he had a 
spirit of his own that seemed to promise great things 
in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run 
away to join the rebels? It was your father that 
pursued him, found him in a ditch, and brought 
him back multum gemeus; to the mirth of the whole 
country. However, majora canamus — the two 
lads fell in love, and that with the same lady. Mr. 
Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved 
and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty cer- 
tain of the victory; and when he found he had 
deceived himself, screamed like a peacock. The 
whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, 
with his silly family standing round the bed in 
tears; now he rode from public-house to public- 
house and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, 
Dick, and Harry. Your father, Mr. David, was a 
kind gentleman; but he was weak, dolefully weak; 
took all this folly with a long countenance; and one 
day — by your leave! — resigned the lady. She 
was no such fool, however; it’s from her you must 
inherit your excellent good sense; and she refused 
to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon 
their knees to her; and the upshot of the matter 
for that while was that she showed both of them the 
door. That was in August; dear me! the same 
year I came from college. The scene must have 
been highly farcical.” 

I thought myself it was a silly business, but I 
could not forget my father had a hand in it. “ Surely 
sir, it had some note of tragedy,” said I. 

“Why, no, sir, not at all,” returned the lawyer. 
“For tragedy implies some ponderable matter in 


KIDNAPPED 


263 


dispute, some dignus vindice nodus; and this piece 
of work was all about the petulance of a young 
ass that had been spoiled, and wanted nothing so 
much as to be tied up and soundly belted. However, 
that was not your father’s view; and the end of it 
was, that from concession to concession on your 
father’s part, and from one height to another of 
squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your uncle’s, 
they came at last to drive a sort of bargain, from 
whose ill-results you have recently been smarting. 
The one man took the lady, the other the estate. 
Now, Mr. David, they talk a great deal of charity 
and generosity; but in this disputable state of life, 
I often think the happiest consequences seem to 
flow when a gentleman consults his lawyer and takes 
all the law allows him. Anyhow, this piece of 
Quixotry upon your father’s part, as it was unjust 
in itself, has brought forth a monstrous family of 
injustices. Your father and mother lived and died 
poor folk; you were poorly reared; and in the 
meanwhile, what a time it has been for the poor 
tenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might add 
(if it was a matter I cared much about) what a time 
for Mr. Ebenezer!” 

“And yet that is certainly the strangest part of 
all,” said I, “that a man’s nature should thus 
change.” 

“True,” said Mr. Rankeillor. “And yet I im- 
agine it was natural enough. He could not think 
that he had played a handsome part. Those who 
knew the story gave him the cold shoulder; those 
who knew it not, seeing one brother disappear and 
the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of mur- 
der; so that upon all sides, he found himself evited. 
Money was all he got by his bargain; well, he came 


264 


KIDNAPPED 


to think the more of money. He was selfish when 
he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and 
the latter end of all these pretty manners and fine 
feelings you have seen for yourself.” 

“Well, sir,” said I, “and in all this, what is my 
position?” 

“The estate is yours beyond a doubt,” replied the 
lawyer. “It matters nothing what your father 
signed, you are the heir of entail. But your uncle is 
a man to. fight the indefensible; and it would be 
likely your identity that he would call in question. 
A lawsuit is always expensive, and a family lawsuit 
always scandalous; besides which, if any of your 
doings with your friend Mr. Thomson were to 
come out, we might find that we had burned our 
fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, w r ould be a 
court card upon our side, if we could only prove 
it. But it may be difficult to prove; and my ad- 
vice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bar- 
gain with your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at 
Shaws where he has taken root for a quarter of a 
century, and contenting yourself in the meanwhile 
with a fair provision.” 

I told him I was very willing to be easy, and that 
to carry family concerns before the public was a 
step from which I was naturally much averse. In 
the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see 
the outlines of that scheme on which we afterward 
acted. 

“The great affair,” I asked, “is to bring home to 
him the kidnapping?” 

“Surely,” said Mr. Rankeillor, “and if possible, 
out of court. For mark you here, Mr. David, 
we could no doubt find some men of the Covenant 
who would swear to you reclusion; but once they 


KIDNAPPED 


265 


were in the box we could no longer check their 
testimony, and some word of your friend Mr. Thom- 
son must certainly crop out. Which (from what 
you have let fall) I cannot think to be desirable.” 

“Well, sir,” said I, “here is my way of it.” And 
I opened my plot to him. 

“But this would seem to involve my meeting the 
man Thomson?” says he, when I had done. 

“I think so, indeed, sir,” said I. 

“Dear doctor!” cries he, rubbing his brow. 
“Dear doctor! No, Mr, David, I am afraid your 
scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your 
friend Mr. Thomson; I know nothing against him, 
and if I did — mark this, Mr. David ! — it would 
be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it to 
you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to 
his charge. He may not have told you all. His 
name may not be even Thomson!” qries the law- 
yer, twinkling; “for some of these fellows will 
pick up names by the roadside as another would 
gather haws.” 

“You must be the judge, sir,” said I. 

But it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his 
fancy, for he kept musing to himself till we were 
called to dinner and the company of Mrs. Rankeillor; 
and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves 
and a bottle of wine, ere he was back harping on 
my proposal. When and where was I to meet my 
friend Mr. Thomson; was I sure of Mr. T.’s dis- 
cretion; supposing we could catch the old fox 
tripping, would I consent to such and such a term of 
an agreement — these and the like questions he 
kept asking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully 
rolled his wine upon his tongue. When I had an- 
swered all of them, seemingly to his contentment, 


a66 


KIDNAPPED 


he fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being 
now forgotten. Then he got a sheet of paper and 
a pencil, and set to work writing and weighing every 
word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk 
into the chamber. 

“Torrance,” said he, “I must have this written 
out fair against to-night; and when it is done, you 
will be so kind as put on your hat and be ready to 
come along with this gentleman and me, for you will 
probably be wanted as a witness.” 

“What, sir,” cried I, as soon as the clerk was 
gone, “are you to venture it?” 

“Why, so it would appear,” says he, filling his 
glass. “But let us speak no more of business. 
The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a 
little, droll matter of some years ago, when I had 
made a tryst with the poor oaf at the cross of Edin- 
burgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and 
when it came four o’clock, Torrance had been 
taking a glass and did not know his master, and 
I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind 
without them, that I give you my word I did not 
know my own clerk.” And thereupon he laughed 
heartily. 

I said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of 
politeness; but what held me all the afternoon in 
wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this 
story, and telling it again with fresh details and 
laughter; so that I began at last to be quite out of 
countenance and feel ashamed for my friend’s folly. 

Toward the time I had appointed with Alan, we 
set out from the house, Mr. Rankeillor and I arm in 
arm and Torrance following behind with the deed 
in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All 
through the town, the lawyer was bowing right and 


KIDNAPPED 


267 


left, and continually being buttonholed by gentle- 
men on matters of burgh or private business; and 
I could see he was one greatly looked up to in the 
country. At last we were clear of the houses, and 
began to go along the side of the haven and toward 
the Hawes Inn and the ferry pier, the scene of my 
misfortune. I could not look upon the place with- 
out emotion, recalling how many that had been there 
with me that day were now no more; Ransome 
taken, I could hope, from the evil to come; Shuan 
passed where I dare not follow him; and the poor 
souls that had gone down with the brig in her 
last plunge. All these, and the brig herself, I had 
outlived; and come through these hardships and 
fearful perils without a scathe. My only thought 
should have been of gratitude; and yet I could not 
behold the place without sorrow for others and 
a chill of recollected fear. 

I was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr. 
Rankeillor cried out, clapped his hand to his pockets, 
and began to laugh. 

“Why,” he cries, “if this be not a farcical ad- 
venture! After all that I said, I have forgot my 
glasses!” 

At that, of course, I understood the purpose of 
his anecdote, and knew that if he had left his spec- 
tacles at home it had been done on purpose, so that 
he might have the benefit of Alan’s help without 
the awkwardness of recognizing him. And indeed 
it was well. thought upon; for now (suppose things 
to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear 
to my friend’s identity or how be made to bear 
damaging evidence against myself? For all that, 
he had been a long while in finding out his want, 
and had spoken to and recognized a good few per- 


268 


KIDNAPPED 


sons as we came through the town; and I had little 
doubt myself that he saw reasonably well. 

As soon as we were past the Hawes (where I 
recognized the landlord smoking his pipe in the 
door, and was amazed to see him look no older) 
Mr. Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking 
behind with Torrance and sending me forward in 
the manner of a scout. I went up the hill, whistling 
from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I 
had the pleasure to hear it answered and to see 
Alan rise behind a bush. He was somewhat dashed 
in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking in 
the country, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse 
near Dundas. But at the mere sight of my clothes, 
he began to brighten up; and as soon as I had told 
him in what a forward state our matters were, and 
the part I looked to him to play in what remained, 
he sprang into a new man. 

“And that is a very good notion of yours,” says 
he; “and I dare to say that you could lay your hands 
upon no better man to put it through, than Alan 
Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that any one 
could do, but takes a gentleman of penetration. 
But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man will be 
somewhat wearying to see me,” says Alan. 

Accordingly, I cried and waved on Mr. Ran- 
keillor, who came up alone and was presented to 
my friend, Mr. Thomson. 

“Mr. Thomson, I am pleased to meet you,” 
said he. “But I have forgotten my glasses; and 
our friend, Mr. David here” (clapping me on the 
shoulder) “will tell you that I am little better than 
blind, and that you must not be surprised if I pass 
you by to-morrow.” 

This he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; 


KIDNAPPED 269 

but the Highlandman’s vanity was ready to startle 
at a less matter than that. 

“Why, sir,” said he stiffly, “I would say it mattered 
the less as we are met here for a particular end, to 
see justice done to Mr. Balfour; and by what I can 
see, not very likely to have much else in common. 
But I accept your apology, which was a very proper 
one to make.” 

“And that is more than I could look for, Mr. 
Thomson,” said Rankeillor, heartily. “And now 
as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise, 
I think we should come into a nice agreement; to 
which end, I propose that you should lend me your 
arm, for (what with the dusk and the want of my 
glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as 
for you, Mr. David, you will find Torrance a pleasant 
kind of body to speak with. Only let me remind 
you, it’s quite needless he should hear more of your 
adventures or those of — ahem — Mr. Thomson.” 

Accordingly, these two went on ahead in very 
close talk, and Torrance and I brought up the rear. 

Night was quite come when we came in view of 
the house of Shaws. Ten had been gone some 
time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling 
wind in the southwest that covered the sound of our 
approach; and as we drew near we saw no glimmer 
of light in any portion of the building. It seemed 
my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the 
best thing for our arrangements. We made our 
last whispered consultations some fifty yards away; 
and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept 
quietly up and crouched beside the corner of the 
house; and as soon as we were in our places, Alan 
strode to the door without concealment and began 
to knock. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


I AM COME INTO MY KINGDOM 

For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, 
and his knocking only roused the echoes of the house 
and neighborhood. At last, however, I could hear 
the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew 
that my uncle had come to his observatory. By 
what light there was, he would see Alan standing, 
like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three wit- 
nesses were hidden quite out of his view; so that, 
in what he saw, there was nothing to alarm an honest 
man in his own house. For all that, he studied his 
visitor awhile in silence, and when he spoke his 
voice had a quaver of misgiving. 

“What’s this?” says he. “This is nae kind of 
time of night for decent folk; and I hae nae trok- 
ings * wi’ night-hawks. What brings ye here ? I 
have a blunderbush.” 

“Is that yoursel’, Mr. Balfour?” returned Alan, 
stepping back and looking up in the darkness. 
“Have a care of that blunderbuss; they’re nasty 
things to burst.” 

“What brings ye here? and whae are ye?” says 
my uncle, angrily. 

“I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my 
name to the countryside,” said Alan; “but what 
brings me here is another story, being more of your 

* Dealings. 

270 


KIDNAPPED 


271 


affairs than mine; and if ye’re sure it’s what ye 
would like, I’ll set it to a tune and sing it to 
you.” 

“And what is’t?” asked my uncle. 

“David,” said Alan. 

“What was that?” cried my uncle, in a mighty 
changed voice. 

“Shall I give ye the rest of the name then?” 
said Alan. 

There was a pause; and then, “I’m thinking I’ll 
better let ye in,” says my uncle, doubtfully. 

“I dare say that,” said Alan; “but the point is, 
would I go? Now I will tell you what I am think- 
ing. I am thinking that it is here upon this door- 
step that we must confer whatever; for I would 
have you to understand that I am as stiff-necked 
as yourseP, and a gentleman of better family.” 

This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he 
was a little while digesting it; and then says he, 
“Weel, weel, what must be must,” and shut the 
window. But it took him a long time to get down- 
stairs, and a still longer to undo the fastenings, re- 
penting (I dare say) and taken with fresh claps of 
fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. 
At last, however, we heard the crack of the hinges, 
and it seems my uncle slipped gingerly out and 
(seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or two) 
sat him down on the top doorstep with the blunder- 
buss ready in his hands. 

“And now,” says he, “mind I have my blunder- 
bush, and if ye take a step nearer ye’re as good as 
deid.” 

“And a very civil speech,” says Alan, “to be 
sure.” 

“Na,” says my uncle, “but this no a very chancy 


272 


KIDNAPPED 


kind of a proceeding, and I am bound to be pre- 
pared. And now that we understand each other, 
ye’ll can name your business. 

“Why,” says Alan, “you that are a man of so 
much understanding, will doubtless have perceived 
that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has 
nae business in my story; but the country of my 
friends is no very far from the Isle of Mull, of which 
ye will have heard. It seemed there was a ship 
lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of 
my family was seeking wreck-wood for his fire 
along the sands, when he came upon a lad that was 
half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he 
and some other gentleman took and clapped him in 
an auld, ruined castle, where from that day to this he 
has been a great expense to my friends. My friends 
are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the 
law as some that I could name; and finding that 
the lad owned some decent folk, and was your born 
nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a 
bit call and to confer upon the matter. And I may 
tell ye at the off-go, unless we can agree upon some 
terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For 
my friends,” added Alan, simply, “are no very 
well off.” 

My uncle cleared his throat. “I’m no very 
caring,” says he. “He wasnae a good lad at the 
best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Alan, “I see what ye would be at: 
pretending ye don’t care, to .make the ransom 
smaller.” 

“Na,” said my uncle, “it’s the mere truth. I 
take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay 
nae ransom, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of 
him for what I care.” 


KIDNAPPED 


273 


“Hoot, sir,” says Alan. “Blood’s thicker than 
water, in the deil’s name! Ye cannae desert your 
brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if ye did, 
and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very 
popular in your countryside, or I’m the more de- 
ceived.” 

“I’m no just very popular the way it is,” returned 
Ebenezer; “and I dinnae see how it would come 
to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by you 
or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,” 
says he. 

“Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,” said 
Alan. 

“How that?” says my uncle, sharply. 

“Ou, just this way,” says Alan. “My friends 
would doubtless keep your nephew as long as there 
was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, but if 
there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would 
let him gang where he pleased, and be damned to 
him!” 

“Ay, but I’m no very caring about that either,” 
said my uncle. “I wouldnae be muckle made up 
with that.” 

“I was thinking that,” said Alan. 

“And what for why?” asked Ebenezer. 

“Why, Mr. Balfour,” replied Alan, “by all that 
I could hear, there were two ways of it; either ye 
liked David and would pay to get him back; or 
else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, 
and would pay for us to keep him. It seems it’s 
not the first; well then, it’s the second; and blythe 
am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my 
pocket and the pockets of my friends.” 

“I dinnae follow ye there,” said my uncle. 

“No?” said Alan. “Well, see here; you dinnae 


274 


KIDNAPPED 


want the lad back ; well, what do ye want done with 
him, and how much will ye pay?” 

My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on 
his seat. 

“Come, sir,” cried Alan. “I would have ye to 
ken that I am a gentleman; I bear a king’s name; 
I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall door. 
Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of 
hand; or by the top of Glencoe, I will run three 
feet of iron through your vitals.” 

“Eh, man,” cried my uncle, scrambling to his 
feet, “give me a meenit! What’s like wrong with 
ye? I’m just a plain man, and nae dancing-master; 
and I’m trying to be as ceevil as it’s morally possible. 
As for that wild talk it’s fair disrepitable. Vitals, 
says you! and where would I be with my blunder- 
bush?” he snarled. 

“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail 
to the swallow against the bright steel in the hands 
of Alan,” said the other. “Before your jottering 
finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on 
your breastbane.” 

“Eh, man, whae’s denying it?” said my uncle. 
“Pit it as ye please, hae’t your ain way; I’ll do 
naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye’ll 
be wanting, and ye’ll see that we’ll can agree 
fine.” 

“Troth, sir,” said Alan, “I ask for nothing but 
plain dealing. In two words: do ye want the lad 
killed or kept?” 

“O, sirs!” cried Ebenezer. “O, sirs, me! that’s 
no kind of language!” 

“Killed or kept?” repeated Alan. 

“O keepit, keepit!” wailed my uncle. “We’ll 
have nae bloodshed if you please.” 


KIDNAPPED 


275 


“Well,” says Alan, “as ye please; that’ll be the 
dearer.” 

“The dearer!” cries Ebenezer. “Would ye fyle 
your hands wi’ crime?” 

“Hoot!” said Alan, “they’re baith crime, what- 
ever! And the killing’s easier, and quicker, and 
surer. Keeping the lad ’ll be a fashious * job, a 
fashious, kittle business.” 

“I’ll have him keepit, though,” returned my 
uncle. “I never had naething to do with anything 
morally wrong; and I’m no gaum to begin to pleas- 
ure a wild Hielandman.” 

“Ye’re unco scrupulous,” sneered Alan. 

“I’m a man o’ principle,” said Ebenezer simply; 
“and if I have to pay for it, I’ll have to pay for it. 
And besides,” says he, “ye forget the lad’s my 
brother’s son.” 

“Well, well,” said Alan, “and now about the 
price. It’s no very easy for me to set a name upon 
it; I would first have to ken some small matters. 
I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave 
Hoseason at the first off-go?” 

“Hoseason?” cries my uncle, struck aback. 
“What for?” 

“For kidnapping David,” says Alan. 

“It’s a lee, it’s a black lee!” cried my uncle. 
“He was never kidnapped. He leed in his throat 
that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!” 

“That’s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,” said 
Alan; “nor yet of Hoseason’s, if he’s a man that 
can be trusted.” 

“What do ye mean?” cried Ebenezer; “did 
Hoseason tell ye?” 

“Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I 

+ Troublesome. 


276 


KIDNAPPED 


ken?” cried Alan. “Hoseason and I are partners; 
we gang shares; so ye can see for yoursel’ what good 
ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove 
a fool’s bargain when ye let a man like the sailor- 
man so far forward in your private matters. But 
that’s past praying for; and ye must lie on your bed 
the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just 
this: what did ye pay him?” 

“Has he tauld ye himsel’?” asked my uncle. 

“That’s my concern,” said Alan. 

“Weel,” said my uncle, “I dinnae care what he 
said, he leed, and the solemn God’s truth is this, 
that I gave him twenty pound. But I’ll be per- 
fec’ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have 
the selling of the lad in Caroliny, whilk would be 
as muckle mair, but no from my pocket, ye see.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do 
excellently well,” said the lawyer stepping forward; 
and then mighty civilly, “Good-evening, Mr. Bal- 
four,” said he. 

And, “Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,” said I. 

And, “It’s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour,” added 
Torrance. 

Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor 
white; but just sat where he was on the top door- 
step and stared upon us like a man turned to stone. 
Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, 
taking him by the arm, plucked him up from the 
doorstep, led him into the kitchen, whither we all 
followed, and set him down in a chair beside the 
hearth, where the fire was out and only a rushlight 
burning. 

There we all looked upon him for awhile, exulting 
greatly in our success, but yet with a sort of pity for 
the man’s shame. 


KIDNAPPED 


277 


“Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer,” said the lawyer, 
“you must not be down-hearted, for I promise you 
we shall make easy terms. In the meanwhile give 
us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a 
bottle of your father’s wine in honor of the event.” 
Then, turning to me and taking me by the hand, 
“Mr. David,” says he, “I wish you all joy in your 
good fortune, which I believe to be deserved.” 
And then to Alan, with a spice of drollery, “Mr. 
Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was most 
artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat 
outran my comprehension. Do I understand your 
name to be James? or Charles? or is it George, 
perhaps. 

“And why should it be any of the three, sir?” 
quoth Alan, drawing himself, up like one who smelt 
an offense. 

“Only, sir, that you mentioned a king’s name,” 
replied Rankeillor; “and as there has never yet 
been a King Thomas, or his fame at least has never 
come my way, I judged you must refer to that you 
had in baptism.” 

This was just the stab that Alan would feel keen- 
est, and I am free to confess he took it very ill. 
Not a word would he answer, but stepped off to the 
far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; 
and it was not till I stepped after him, and gave him 
my hand, and thanked him by title as the chief spring 
of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was 
at last prevailed upon to join our party. 

By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle 
of wine uncorked; a good supper came out of the 
basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan set our- 
selves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed 
into the next chamber to consult. They stayed 


278 


KIDNAPPED 


there closeted about an hour; at the end of which 
period they had come to a good understanding, 
and my uncle and I set our hands to the agreement, 
in a formal manner. By the terms of this, my 
uncle was confirmed for life in the possession of the 
house and lands: and bound himself to satisfy 
Rankeillor as to his intromissions, and to pay me 
two clear thirds of the yearly income. 

So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and 
when I lay down that night on the kitchen chests, I 
was a man of means and had a name in the country. 
Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored 
on their hard beds; but for me, who had lain out 
under heaven and upon dirt and stones so many 
days and nights, and often with an empty belly, 
and in fear of death, this good change in my case 
unmanned me more than any of the former evil ones; 
and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof 
and planning the future. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXX 


GOOD-BYE 

So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to 
port; but I had still Alan, to whom I was so much 
beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a heavy 
charge in the matter of the murder and James of 
the Glens. On both these heads I unbosomed to 
Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and fro 
about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, 
and with nothing in view but the fields and woods 
that had been my ancestors’ and were now mine. 
Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye 
would take a glad bit of a run over the prospect, 
and my heart jump with pride. 

About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer 
had no doubt; I must help him out of the country 
at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was 
of a different mind. 

“Mr. Thomson,” says he, “is one thing, Mr. 
Thomson’s kinsman quite another. I know little 
of the facts, but I gather that a great noble (whom 
we will call, if you like, the D. of A.) * has some con- 
cern and is even supposed to feel some animosity in 
the matter. The D. of A. is doubtless an excellent 
nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocre deos. 
If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should 
remember there is one way to shut your testimony 
out; and that is to put you in the dock. There, 

* The Duke of Argyll. 

279 


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KIDNAPPED 


you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson’s 
kinsman. You will object that you are innocent; 
well, but so is he. And to be tried for your life be- 
fore a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel, and 
with a Highland judge upon the bench, would 
be a brief transition to the gallows.” 

Now I had made all these reasonings before and 
found no very good reply to them; so I put on all 
the simplicity I could. “In that case, sir,” said I, 
“ I would just have to be hanged — would I not ?” 

“My dear boy,” cries he, “go in God’s name, and 
do what you think is right. It is a poor thought 
that at my time of life I should be advising you to 
choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back 
with an apology. Go and do your duty; and be 
hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There are 
worse things in the world than to be hanged.” 

“Not many, sir,” said I, smiling. 

“Why, yes, sir,” he cried, “very many. And it 
would be ten times better for your uncle (to go no 
further afield) if he were dangling decently upon a 
gibbet.” 

Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a 
great fervor of mind so that I saw I had pleased him 
heartily) and there he wrote me two letters, making 
his comments on them as he wrote. 

“This,” says he, “is to my bankers, the British 
Linen Company, placing a credit to your name. 
Consult Mr. Thomson; he will know of ways; and 
you, with this credit, can supply the means. I 
trust you will be a good husband of your money; 
but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson, I 
would be even prodigal. Then, for his kinsman, 
there is no better way than that you should seek 
the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer testimony; 
whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, 


KIDNAPPED 


281 

and will turn on the D. of A. Now that you may 
reach the Lord Advocate well recommended, I 
give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, 
the learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I 
esteem. It will look better that you should be pre- 
sented by one of your own name; and the laird of 
Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and 
stands well with Lord Advocate Grant. I would not 
trouble him, if I were you, with any particulars; 
and (do you know?) I think it would be needless 
to refer to Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the 
laird, he is a good model; when you deal with the 
Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may 
the Lord guide you, Mr. David!” 

Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with 
Torrance for the Ferry, while Alan and I turned our 
faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went by the 
footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished 
lodge, we kept looking back at the house of my 
fathers. It stood there, bare and great and smoke- 
less, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top 
windows, there was the peak of a night-cap bobbing 
up and down and back and forward, like the head of 
a rabbit from a burrow. I had little welcome when 
I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at 
least I was watched as I went away. 

In the meanwhile Alan and I went slowly forward 
upon our way, having little heart either to walk or 
speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, 
that we were near the time of our parting; and re- 
membrance of all the bygone days sat upon us sorely. 
We talked indeed of what should be done; and it 
was resolved that Alan should keep to the country, 
biding now here, now there, but coming once in a 
day to a particular place where I might be able to 


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KIDNAPPED 


communicate with him, either in my own person or 
by messenger. In the meanwhile, I was to seek 
out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart, and a 
man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should 
be his part to find a ship and to arrange for Alan’s 
safe embarkation. No sooner was this business 
done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though 
I would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. 
Thomson, and he with me on my new clothes 
and my estate, you could feel very well that we were 
nearer tears than laughter. 

We came by way over the hill of Corstorphine; 
and when we got near to the place called Rest-and- 
be-Thankful, and looked down on Corstorphine 
bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, 
we both stopped, for we both knew, without a word 
said, that we had come to where our ways parted. 
Here he repeated to me once again what had been 
agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer 
the daily hour at which Alan might be found, and 
the signals that were to be made by any that came 
seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a 
guinea or two of Rankeillor’s), so that he should not 
starve in the meanwhile; and then we stood a space, 
and looked over at Edinburgh in silence. 

“Well, good-bye,” said Alan, and held out his 
left hand. 

“Good-bye,” said I, and gave the hand a little 
grasp, and went off down the hill. 

Neither one of us looked the other in the face, 
nor so long as he was in my view did I take one back 
glance at the friend I was leaving. But as I went on 
my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that 
I could have found it in my heart to sit down by the 
dyke, and cry and weep like a baby. 


KIDNAPPED 


283 

It was coming near noon, when I passed in by the 
West Kirk and the Grassmarket into the streets of 
the capital. The huge height of the buildings, 
running up to ten and fifteen stories, the narrow 
arched entries that continually vomited passengers, 
the wares of the merchants in their windows, the 
hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the fine 
clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small 
to mention, struck me into a kind of stupor of sur- 
prise, so that I let the crowd carry me to and fro; 
and yet all the time what I was thinking of was 
Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time 
(although you would think I would not choose but 
be delighted with these braws and novelties) there 
was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for 
something wrong. 

The hand of Providence brought me in my drift- 
ing to the very doors of the British Linen Com- 
pany’s bank. 

’(Just there, with his hand upon his fortune, the 
present editor inclines for the time to say farewell 
to David. How Alan escaped, and what was done 
about tfye murder, with a variety of other delectable 
particulars, may be some day set forth. That is 
a thing, however, that hinges on the public fancy. 
The editor has a great kindness for both Alan and 
David, and would gladly spend much of his life in 
their society; but in this he may find himself to 
stand alone. In the fear of which, and lest anyone 
should complain of scurvy usage, he hastens to pro- 
test that all went well with both, in the limited and 
human sense of the word “well”; that whatever 
befell them, it was not dishonor, and whatever 
failed them, they were not found wanting to them- 
selves.) 

















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